A Midwinter Nightmare
by MissBates
Summary: On the eve of an important event House goes on rampage at PPTH, stealing a patient from Cuddy, annoying his team and messing with Lucas's head. Is he back on vicodin? Post "Private Lives", based on 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Ch. 8 up. Concrit welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**:

This fic is set in the weeks after _Private Lives_. It has the standard pairings as they exist in the series at that point, meaning Cuddy/Lucas, Cameron separated from Chase. Some of the plot might not be comprehensible unless you've watched _Private Lives_.

**Warning:** This will not end as Huddy, though the Cuddy/Lucas relationship will receive a bit of a setback.

Further Warning: The fic is an exercise in plot conversion, i.e. I've tried to adapt _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ to fit into House MD. It's possible to read and understand the story without knowing _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, but it does mean that I'm limited somewhat by the plot of the play. For instance, House does not turn up until Chapter 3.

Last Warning: A Midsummer Night's Dream is a light comedy – this fic started off the same, but in the process of writing it turned rather sombre. I guess the fact is that House MD simply isn't comedy – it's mostly personal tragedy, really, so that mood has coloured this fic.

**Many thanks to my beta Brighid45 for her unremitting efforts and endless patience. For all who think that Season 6 might be dealing with House's recovery from addiction rather too lightly: check out her Treatment series for competent insights into therapy and the process of recovery.**

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* * *

  
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**Act 1, Scene 1**

_Theseus: Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.  
Hermia: So is Lysander.  
Theseus: In himself he is.  
But in this, lacking your father's voice,  
The other must be held the worthier.__  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 1]_

**8 p.m.**

Snowflakes drifted past the window, cascading gently onto the windowsill, flurrying up again whenever a gust of wind shook them, sparkling in the warm glow from the lights in the room. The surrounding roofs were already covered by a light powdering, as were the lawns of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, but the roads and sidewalks, warmer by a few degrees, were still clear. That would probably change in the course of the night, inundating the ER with careless drivers, but for the present the scene was idyllic, a picture-book winter evening that carried hints of crackling firewood, hot punch and baked apples.

Inside, the first board meeting of the year was drawing to a close. Casting a tired eye over the agenda, Wilson registered that all controversial issues had been dealt with. _It shouldn't take Cuddy long to dispose of the remaining topics._ He glanced over to where she was sitting, legs folded demurely under her chair, and smiled inwardly. Cuddy was petite and feminine, but when she advocated and defended her proposals, she blew away resistance like a hurricane. She was now giving the board a very concise summary of the planned agenda for tomorrow – the visit of a political heavy-weight to the hospital – true to her axiom: The less information given, the fewer stupid questions were asked. Wilson glanced over the programme.

'8 a.m.: Dr Cuddy and senior staff greet Senator Woodward in the lobby.'

8 a.m.? There was no way he'd be able to get House to be in hospital by 8 a.m. Then again, 'senior staff' in this case probably meant 'senior staff excepting Gregory House MD'. Perhaps Cuddy had scheduled the visit to start at 8 am to ensure that House would be safely out of the way. An inspection of the Oncology Department was scheduled for 11 am, there was a buffet lunch (House would be bound to turn up for that), a podium discussion on current health issues in the afternoon (bla-bla-bla) and an end to the madness roughly at 5 pm.

He turned the programme over, skimming over Senator Woodward's CV that Cuddy had kindly printed on the back. Again, this was Cuddy's way of ensuring that the visit would not be marred by questions guaranteed to unmask her staff's ignorance of current politics, for Senator Woodward was a rising star on the political horizon, a leading health expert for her political party and, if rumours were true, an aspirant for the post of president in the next elections. Ah, here was the answer to the question that had been niggling Wilson ever since the visit had been announced: why would the woman grace a small hospital in another state with her presence? It seemed that Senator Woodward, born in 1969, had been an undergraduate at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor before joining law school in Harvard.

"Dr Cuddy, what additional security measures have you projected for the Senator's visit?" another board member suddenly interjected. "If she is a potential presidential candidate we need to ensure her personal safety."

"Senator Woodward has her own security officers who will accompany her to the hospital, of course. Princeton police will cordon off the surrounding streets during her visit and regulate incoming traffic. Within the hospital we have our own security staff, supplemented by professional help from outside."

"And that will cost us ...?"

"Nothing at all. I'm calling in a personal favour," Cuddy returned with a tight smile.

A personal favour? Wilson figured that could only mean _one_ person.

"I think we have covered everything pertaining to Senator Woodward's visit, so I'd like to move on to our final topic: I'm proud to be able to announce that our Department of Diagnostic Medicine has been invited to hold a series of lectures and seminars for the graduate neuroscience training programme at Johns Hopkins University. We received this offer because the department published a paper on 'Non-invasive Diagnostic Methods in Neurology' in the _Journal of Medicine_ that caused quite a furore in the profession, not to mention a lot of good publicity for PPTH. I don't want to hide from you that accepting the offer from Johns Hopkins implies an investment on our part. Their recompense is more of a salutary nature while the doctors who hold the course will need time off from work not only for the actual teaching, but also for preparations, travel, etc. Nevertheless, as a teaching hospital this is too good an opportunity for us to miss. I have asked Dr Hadley from the Department of Diagnostic Medicine to give you an overview of the course the department intends to offer. If you approve of the concept then I will ask you to give two doctors from the department paid leave for the time they need to prepare and hold the course."

She got up and went to the door of the board room. "Dr Hadley?"

Thirteen entered the boardroom looking slightly uncertain and holding a sheaf of papers in her hand.

"May I introduce Dr Remy Hadley, one of Dr House's fellows? Dr Hadley, will you please give the board a short summary of the paper your department published and explain the concept of the course that you will hold at Johns Hopkins this spring?"

Wilson, being the confidant of choice for House's fellows, especially when House refused to fulfil such irksome duties as proofreading papers that bore the name of his department, had read the paper long before it was published. Hence Thirteen's outline of the neurology paper, tentative at first, but slowly gaining in confidence, held no unfamiliar elements for him. It was a clever move on Cuddy's part to let Thirteen represent the Department before the board; House was out of the question if Cuddy wanted the board's approval, Foreman frequently came over as arrogant as House – one would think he'd have the sense to acquire House's more endearing qualities, but no, he imitated his worst ones. Taub wasn't anywhere near as easy on the eyes as Thirteen, and Chase ... Chase was best kept out of the public eye altogether. Ever since Cameron had left he'd reminded Wilson unpleasantly of House after Stacy's first departure.

Cuddy, Wilson noted out of the corner of his eye, had straightened. He followed her line of vision to Thirteen, not to her face as one would expect, but to her hands. They were shaking. Nervousness in someone as self-confident as Thirteen was rather endearing. One would think that a few years of dealing with House's opprobrious comments and exaggerated demands would have inured her to stress, but there she was, trembling like an aspen leaf.

"The course will be held _en block_ over a period of four weeks beginning on April 10. It will comprise a series of ten lectures, six seminars, diverse workshops and an examination set and graded by us. It is aimed at post-graduate students specializing in neurology. Dr Foreman and I will take turns holding the lectures, we will both chair workshops, and Dr Foreman will hold the seminars."

Cuddy stirred, looking down at her notes. "That isn't the information I got. It was my understanding that Dr Chase will accompany you, holding three lectures and chairing half the workshops."

"What?" Thirteen stared. "I mean ... I'm sorry, that can't be."

"It definitely is." Cuddy waved a form at Thirteen.

Thirteen took the form from Cuddy and studied it, forehead furrowed. When she had finished she said, "There must be some mistake ..."

"I'm sure we don't need to discuss that here and now. The question is not 'Who is going to Johns Hopkins and holding which lecture', but 'Does the board approve of this excursion on our part into academia?'" Cuddy said smoothly, giving Thirteen a quelling look.

She got the board's vote in record time, closing the meeting with a general invitation to the podium discussion the next day. The other board members filed out, but Thirteen lingered. Wilson paused, his curiosity more powerful than his ingrained sense of politeness.

"Dr Cuddy, could I speak to you for a moment?" Thirteen opened.

Cuddy didn't pause as she stacked her notes into a neat pile. "If it's about who is to be delegated to Johns Hopkins there's nothing to discuss. Dr House has decided that Dr Chase is to go."

"Did he say why?"

Cuddy gathered the papers into her arms and drew herself upright to face Thirteen. "He doesn't have to say why. It's his department and therefore his call. But you read the reason on the form: he can't forgo Dr Foreman's expertise, not when two members of his team are to be absent for a considerable period of time. Dr Chase as a surgeon will not be missed quite as much as a neurologist."

"But that's absolutely unfair! Foreman wrote most of that paper – I just helped a bit and Chase did nothing at all - and Foreman has prepared the entire concept for the course. This is Foreman's baby!"

"Dr Hadley, I'm not refereeing a high school quiz competition; I'm trying to run a hospital. I don't subscribe to 'fair', I subscribe to 'practicable'. I will _not_ get involved in your feuds in order to satisfy your notions of justice." She turned on her heel once more at the door. "Dr House is your boss, even if he allows you to treat him with a certain degree of informality. Need I remind you what happened to Dr Cole when he fraternized with the enemy?"

* * *

Thirteen stormed into the conference room. "Where's House?"

Neither Foreman nor Chase professed as much interest as Thirteen's dramatic entrance warranted. Foreman looked up from the paperwork of their last case with a mild quirk of his eyebrows, whereas Chase remained tipped back in his chair with his eyes closed. Thirteen's eyes snapped from one to the other in irritation. It would be nice if Foreman dropped his professional detachment for long enough to show the anxiety that she knew he felt for his pet project. Chase admittedly was a hopeless case. He'd never professed the slightest interest for the paper or the course, nor had he shown signs of more than vegetative life today. Input: aspirin and coffee; movement: nil; Contribution to differentials: monosyllabic. The only wonder was that House hadn't seemed to notice.

"Didn't the board approve?" Foreman inquired.

"They did. But House screwed us. He's put Chase down as one of the lecturers instead of you!"

Foreman's features stilled while Chase's bloodshot eyes snapped open. He slowly righted his chair from its tipped-back position and placed the coffee mug he was nursing back on the table, letting out a long-drawn whistle.

"Did you know about this?" Thirteen asked, turning on him.

"No. Didn't ask for it either, if that's what you're getting at. But I can't say I'm surprised. You guys seriously pissed him off by getting in contact with Johns Hopkins without his permission. What did you expect? You can be happy he's letting you go through with it at all."

"He didn't want us working on the project in our _work time_, so we did it after work," Thirteen pointed out. "Nor is he letting **us** go through with it – he's put you in the boat and kicked Foreman out, although you haven't as much as drawn a doodle for it."

"I drank a lot of supportive beers."

"What did Cuddy say?" Foreman interrupted their bickering.

"She knows he's messing with us, but she won't interfere." Thirteen slapped her papers and files on the table in frustration. "What are we going to do?"

"Chase could tell House that he doesn't want in."

"Are you kidding? Why should I let this pass me by?" Chase guffawed.

"Perhaps a basic sense of decency won't let you take advantage of your colleagues. You know how much work Foreman put into this," Thirteen suggested. "Besides, you aren't qualified to hold lectures on neurology."

The last statement was a mistake. Chase leaned back folding his arms across his chest.

"Foreman would be the first person to take advantage of the situation if our roles were reversed. Why should I get into a confrontation with House over something you folks messed up? Furthermore, if I recall your endless discussions correctly – which took place _during_ working hours, even if the project write-up didn't – the course isn't on neurology but on _diagnostic methods_ in neurology. I've been around here longer than either of you and ... I can handle it." He leaned forward to examine the papers that Thirteen had slammed down onto the table, picking up the proposal that the board had approved of. "Looks like Thirteen will be doing most of the teaching anyway, so I get to chill." He shrugged. "Suits me just fine."

Foreman rose. He tossed the case file he'd been completing to Chase, saying, "If you can handle the course, you can handle the paperwork from now on." He turned to Thirteen. "Come along. It's well past eight, we don't have a case, so let's go."

Thirteen waited until the elevator doors closed on her and Foreman before picking up the topic again. "Aren't you going to _do_ anything? Are you going to let House get away with this?"

"Not much I can do. House resents having me there as Cuddy's watchdog, so he's taking it out on me. Cuddy, on the other hand, won't support me against House. She uses me in their game of checks and balances, but she'll never give me real power."

"You're seriously not going to do anything? You'll let them jerk you around like ... like a marionette?" Thirteen's incredulity was palpable.

"I'll hand in my resignation tomorrow," Foreman remarked with the air of someone making a polite comment about the weather.

Thirteen raised her eyebrows, looking pointedly away from him. He might want to do the 'I am not affected emotionally by any of this' act, but she wasn't going play Greek chorus for him.

"I was offered a job as assistant professor at UW Medicine some time ago. It wasn't a bad offer, but I wasn't interested at the time."

"So, do you _want_ to do it now or do you just want to put House's nose out of joint?"

"I could get tenure in a few years."

"Leaving me to cope with Chase ... and House." Thirteen could feel her heart sinking.

Foreman hesitated. "You could come along. I'm allowed to nominate two teaching assistants."

"Seattle. That's ... a big decision."

"Think about it," Foreman said carelessly. "I'm handing in my resignation tomorrow."

Thirteen looked thoughtful. It would be easier if Foreman gave more clues regarding his feelings or his motivation in offering her the post. "Do you think I could teach?"

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think so: I'm not running a soup kitchen distributing charity meals. I'll have to establish my position there if I'm to get tenure. Take it or leave it."

He strode out of the elevator without looking back at her. She stood immobile for a moment before rushing after him.

"I'll take it."

"Good." He seemed genuinely pleased.

Thirteen suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. "Isn't that Cameron? I thought she works in some hospital in New York."

It was indeed Dr Cameron. She came through the entrance door pulling her gloves off and stuffing them into her coat pockets. When she saw Foreman and Thirteen she came up to them, giving each a quick hug and a wan smile.

"Hey, how're you doing?" Foreman asked.

"Good," she answered, as though that word negated weight loss, pale cheeks and the dark rings under her eyes. "Is Robert still upstairs? He wasn't at ho ... at his place."

"Yes," Thirteen answered. Unable to stop herself she added in a rush, "You don't look good!"

Cameron took a deep breath. "Robert didn't mention that he has filed for a divorce?"

"No," Foreman frowned. "That explains a lot."

"You don't want a divorce?" Thirteen asked, her confusion obvious. She had assumed that Cameron was the one who had opted out of the marriage, since Cameron had been the one to leave.

"No. I wanted space. Some time for both of us to reconsider our priorities. I didn't think that Robert as a Catholic would take marriage so lightly ..."

Foreman's face was deadpan – he'd have preferred not knowing quite so much – but Thirteen ran through an entire gamut of emotions, from puzzlement through incredulity, dismay, pity, a tinge of disgust, before settling on something akin to Foreman's blandness. Was Cameron really so naive as to believe that she could walk out of a relationship, expecting Chase to hang around until she was ready to pick it up again?

Cameron opted for a change of topic. "So how's work?"

Foreman and Thirteen looked at each other.

"Bad topic?" Cameron surmised.

After a short pause Thirteen volunteered, "We're quitting."

"Both of you? Why?"

"House is jerking us around. We're going for teaching posts at UW Medicine," Foreman explained.

"How did House react?"

Thirteen and Foreman looked at each other again. Trust Cameron to be more bothered about House than at the major upheavals facing her ex-colleagues. "He doesn't know yet. We're handing in our resignations tomorrow."

"Well ...," Cameron was nonplussed, "good luck, I suppose."

"Thanks," Thirteen smiled awkwardly. "You too."

_Lysander: Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:  
Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold  
Her silvery visage, in the watery glass,  
Decking with liquid pearl, the bladed grass  
A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal  
Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.__  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 1]_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Sorry, but the editor refuses to format the MND quotes the way I want them. Even meddling with the html code hasn't helped.

**Again, thanks to my beta Brighid45, who sees to it that I get my facts right. Check out her Treatment series. **

Downside: one has to read the series chronologically, otherwise one misses out on important information. Upside: It's riveting stuff that one can't get enough of, so it's good that there's tons of it and more coming.

* * *

**Act 1, Scene 2**

_Quince__: Is all our company here?  
Bottom: You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 2]_

**9 p.m.**

"This," said Alan Quincy, flinging open a nondescript door in the basement of PPTH, "is the heart of the security department." The head of security beamed with pride at the windowless, darkened room not much larger than a janitor's closet. It was also deep and narrow, one long wall covered with monitors showing various locations in the hospital. On a swivel chair in front of the screens an acne-riddled freckled red-head who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone hold down a paid job, swung around in alarm, trying in one swift movement to swing his feet off the desk and hide the magazine on his lap.

"Jeesh, Piccolo, are you old enough to read stuff like that?" Quincy barked, his mouth crinkling in distaste. The red-head blushed and tried to thrust the magazine under a pile of others on the desk, knocking over a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the process. Quincy and his companion both lunged for it, but Quincy was hampered by a girth that matched his impressive height, whereas his companion, though considerably shorter, but wiry and agile, caught the cup successfully before it hit the floor.

"Thanks, man!" Quincy wheezed. He rounded on the boy, whose face was now as red as his hair. "Piccolo, you're a clumsy idiot! Here, say hello to Mr. Douglas. He's supervising our security arrangements for tomorrow."

"Call me Lucas," his companion corrected, his eyes flickering appraisingly over the boy. "And I'm not _supervising_ them really, I'm just lending a hand here and there as a friend, y'know."

"If you say so," Quincy said doubtfully, but his face relaxed. "This useless good-for-nothing is Piccolo. I've assigned him to the lobby to control IDs and search bags."

Intrigued that someone with so obvious an Anglo-Irish ancestry sported an Italian name, Lucas leaned forward to give his badge a glance. 'Francis Pickering'. Wonderful – he'd have to learn not only the names, but also the nicknames of the security staff.

"Wow, do I get a gun?" Piccolo asked.

"No," Quincy said firmly. "You don't know how to handle firearms, so you don't get a gun."

"What do I do if I ... " "Why doesn't he know how to ... " Piccolo and Lucas said at the same time.

Quincy held up his hand to silence Piccolo, lifting one eyebrow at Lucas to give him leave to continue.

"Why doesn't he know how to shoot?" Lucas repeated.

"He's just a stand-in," Quincy explained. "Normally he's in ... in maintenance."

"Air-conditioning maintenance'," Piccolo elucidated.

"Okay, I need a complete staff list, please, including stand-ins and whatever, because the personnel department only gave me a list of the regular security staff. When do I meet everyone else?" Lucas asked.

"The others will be along to meet you in a moment. We'll have about ten minutes before they have to go back to their duties."

_Ten minutes? Brilliant!_ "We need to do a couple of run-throughs."

Quincy's expression showed little enlightenment. "Run-throughs?"

"Yeah, we sort of go through the Senator's schedule step-for-step, see where she goes, check whether she's always within sight of a security official, where she's likely to be at risk, whether she's always on one of the monitors. But I need the rest of the staff for that."

"Uh," said Quincy. "I guess we could do those at ten p.m. when they come off their shift. They'll be royally pissed, though."

_So will I_, thought Lucas, _if I have to spend half the night here_. He put 'phone the babysitter' on his mental to-do list. A movement on one of the monitors caught his eye, so he sidled over to the wall examining each screen closely.

"Here, the one in the lobby – we might want to change the angle a bit, get some more of the entrance into the picture. Let's see, that's the clinic, here are the elevators on the first floor, ... what's that? ... Okay. The Senator's giving a speech in the auditorium. Have we got a camera there? No? ... Doesn't matter, I'll fix that."

He jotted down some notes on a pad ere he returned his attention to the remaining monitors. Pausing before one of the lower screens he chewed his lip, deep in thought.

"Cafeteria," Piccolo supplied helpfully.

"Yeah, I can see that," Lucas answered irritably, his mask of innocuous amiability slipping slightly. "Say, how long do you keep the tapes?"

"One week," Quincy answered. "There's some sort of board directive saying we can't keep them any longer."

"And then you do what, delete them?" Lucas probed.

"No just recycle them. We use them again." Since Lucas seemed genuinely interested Quincy expanded on the topic. "See, we've got the tapes in this box here. When a tape is full, our man takes another tape from the bottom of the box and puts the full one on top. We've got just over one week's supply of tapes, so it works out exactly right."

One week. Then he was safe. Not that there was a great danger of anyone finding ...

"I always take a tape from the top of the box," Piccolo interjected, looking surprised at Quincy's explanation. "Didn't no one tell me that I was to take it from the bottom."

Lucas stared at him with a sinking feeling. The cafeteria camera was aimed straight at the table he'd been sitting at when he'd tripped House four weeks ago, so there must have been a recording of the incident. If all security employees were as dumb as this ginger-headed specimen, then that tape could still be in existence somewhere in the depths of that box.

Quincy, sensing his unrest though ignorant of its cause, said bracingly, "How about we take new tapes for the Senator's visit and store them separately?"

"Sure, good idea," Lucas agreed, though he couldn't have cared less.

The door opened and three men in khaki security uniforms trooped in.

"Ah, my men," Quincy intoned, indulging himself in a round of back-slapping and shoulder-patting. "This is Rob, that's Tom and that's our Leo."

"I'm Lucas Douglas, PI. I'm helping out over here tomorrow, just keeping an eye on this and that. Can we take a look at the schedule and talk about everyone's tasks?"

"Right," Quincy said importantly, "I'll tell everyone where they are positioned and what their tasks are." He drew crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and smoothed it out on the table. "Tom, back entrance. If people come to the back entrance to get inside, you tell them very politely that we've got an important visitor, apologize for the inconvenience ..."

"Let no one in and send them to the main entrance," Lucas interrupted. Ten minutes to prime everyone was cutting it tight. If Quincy took this long to explain simple tasks, how long would a run-through take? He saw the look on Quincy's face. "Sorry, didn't mean to, y'know, interrupt you, but that was the plan, right? Send everyone round to the main entrance to have their identities checked."

"Yeah, well," Quincy muttered. "Piccolo, Leo, main entrance in the lobby. You'll get a list of the people who're allowed inside the hospital tomorrow, so you ask for everyone's IDs and cross-check if they are allowed to enter."

"And if they're not on the list?"

"Then you ask them to leave again," Lucas explained with what he felt was angelic patience.

"Politely!" Quincy added.

"What happens if someone wants to visit a patient?" Piccolo asked.

"There've been flyers informing patients and their families, asking them to put their names down on this list. Either they have done so or ... ," Quincy shrugged.

"Some won't know or will have forgotten to do so," Piccolo surmised. "Oh boy-o, there are going to be some majorly pissed-off folks in that lobby tomorrow." Leo, a nondescript individual, nodded mutely.

"Oh no, not many. Well, maybe some. Okay, quite a few," Lucas conceded.

"So what do we do with them?" Leo's voice was a squeak.

"Roar at them?" Lucas suggested sarcastically. Leo looked as though he was about to faint.

Brilliant staffing for the main entrance: a boy who _shouldn't _handle a gun and a wuss who couldn't. Not that there were many alternatives: Tom, a thin shaky individual, didn't look any tougher than Leo, while Rob seemed as thick as a wall. Lucas had assumed until now that Lisa had hired and kept House because she'd nourished a hidden passion for him, but he conceded that he might have been mistaken on that count. It must be some sort of masochist or martyr complex that made her hire the inept, the incompetent and the insufferable, believing she could bring their hidden light out from under the bushel of prejudice so as to turn the world into a brighter, cheerier place.

"Look, I can join you in the lobby and sorta help a bit to calm people down, soothe ruffled tempers, and so on," he suggested. The lobby was a neuralgic point that needed the closest monitoring.

"Actually," Quincy said, "I had you down for the clinic."

"The clinic?" Lucas asked with foreboding. "The clinic is closed, isn't it? ... It isn't? ... Right, it isn't. Yeah, obviously it isn't – how can Dr Cuddy show it off unless it's open? That sort of makes your list of admissible people superfluous, doesn't it?"

"Huh?"

"How," Lucas said slowly and distinctly, "are you going to control who's coming in if the clinic is open and any Tom, Dick and terrorist can come in for free treatment?"

"Ah, hadn't thought of that."

There was an awkward silence.

"Okay, I'll think of something. Let's just continue," Lucas finally said.

Quincy looked relieved. "Right. Rob, you'll be monitoring the screens in here. You'll inform me at once if you see anything suspicious."

"Right, boss. Watch the screens, call you if ... how do I know what's suspicious?"

"Maybe I should be here while Rob takes a post that requires his muscle," Lucas said, thinking of the cafeteria surveillance tape that still needed to be found. A few hours in here would suffice to let him know whether it still existed.

"Naw, that would be wasting your talents," Quincy argued. "Rob is best off here, out of the bustle." He gave Lucas a significant glance – if the others were intellectually one-eyed, Rob was practically blind.

Lucas shrugged. He'd be sure to find a few spare minutes in between to search the boxes of tapes.

Quincy looked down at his list once more. "It says the Senator's bringing her own bodyguards, so I figure we don't have to dog her non-stop."

"Her own bodyguards?" Tom piped up. "What's the deal with the lady? I never even heard of her – always thought our senator is called Loudenburger or something."

Quincy looked enquiringly at Lucas.

"She's from Colorado, actually," Lucas filled in. "Here's a picture of her so you know who you're supposed to be protecting."

The others crowded round him to take a look at the picture of an attractive blonde woman in her early forties. Piccolo whistled.

"Some floozie," he muttered.

"That floozie," Lucas told him, "might well be your next president. Okay, I'm going to go fix up those extra cameras. We meet at ten p.m. sharp for our run-throughs!"

_Bottom__: We will meet, and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains, be perfect, adieu.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1 Scene 2]_


	3. Chapter 3

**Act 2****, Scene 1**

_Oberon: Why should Titania cross her Oberon?  
I do but beg a little changeling boy__  
To be my henchman.  
Titania: Set your heart at rest,  
The fairy land buys not the child of me.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 1]_

**9**** p.m.**

The winter landscape below him was strangely calming. New snow at the beginning of March, an oddity of nature. The sounds of evening traffic drifted up to him muted by the thin blanket of snow. It was a good thing he'd left the bike at home and taken his car. He stuck out his tongue to catch a snowflake, glad to be able to indulge in such childish behaviour without a witness, for the roof was deserted thanks to the late hour and harsh weather. Not that he objected to an audience _per se_ when he behaved like a juvenile, but playing with snow had a touch of sentimentality, somewhere along the same lines as liking fairy tales or rescuing kittens. Perhaps living with Wilson was beginning to rub off on him. _You're catching his girl cooties_, he reprimanded himself.

Change was imminent. He didn't like change, and had never done so. Now, however, it was inevitable. His mother used to say, and probably still did, "What can't be cured has to be endured." A stupid, defeatist adage. Admittedly he couldn't 'cure' the problem, but he could give it a treatment of palliative medicine, making the transition from this state of being to the next easier on himself. He'd already applied a hefty dose of manipulative morphine today, screwing Foreman in front of the whole board. Wilson had texted him afterwards: 'What r u up 2? 13 fuming!' He wondered whether Cuddy had seen through his ploy.

She'd cornered him in the clinic two days ago, dragging him into an exam room, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it to prevent his departure before she was done with him. He had hopped onto the examination table patting the space next to him invitingly.

"Oh, are we skipping the verbal foreplay today? I love it when you want it hard and fast."

"House, there was a complaint from a clinic patient today ..."

"Couldn't have been me, teacher, because I wasn't there today." He had slid off the table and had made for the door. Cuddy, however, hadn't budged, continuing as though he hadn't interrupted.

"...that the doctor treating her couldn't take a blood sample because her hands were shaking too badly. She had to wait for half an hour until another doctor was available."

House had stopped short, but had caught himself again a moment later. "And this is of interest to me because ... ? You don't seriously expect me to solve your staff scheduling problems, do you?"

"I have taken Dr Hadley off clinic duty. That is no solution to the problem – it's only a stop-gap until you come up with something."

"And if I don't," House had asked, "you fire her? You can't, you know."

"I have no intention of firing her, House. But I can't have her carrying out procedures that require coordination." She'd given him her I-can't-make-the-world-a-fair-place look. "From now on she carries out no procedure on a patient on her own. She is not to do any sort of invasive procedure _at_ _all_."

Cuddy had paused, cocking her head at him. "Sooner or later she'll be reduced to sitting in on differentials and doing your paperwork. If she has only a _tenth_ of your personal pride it'll be sooner rather than later, because she'll shun patient contact the way you do. And if she has only a _hundredth_ of your professional pride she'll hate what she is reduced to."

He'd been silent.

She'd smiled sweetly at him. "In order to accelerate your thinking process, I've put you down for all Dr Hadley's clinic hours in the coming weeks." Then she'd turned on her heels. His eyes had automatically followed her swaying backside as she'd disappeared in a swish of red and black, but it hadn't given him the pleasant tug it usually did.

He was getting cold, despite coat and hat. Normally he'd head back to his office, relax in his Eames chair and peruse medical journals (contrary to popular opinion, an opinion that he'd admittedly taken care to cultivate, he preferred those to porn) until Wilson was set to go home, but he didn't feel like dealing with his team just now. So condo it was then, although it held no attraction to him this evening. He'd be there alone, watching television, persuading himself that this was his notion of a cosy evening, trying to downplay the pain in his leg that was exacerbated by the cold (and though he chose not to admit it, by the impending upheavals in his department) and the craving for vicodin that flared up on nights like these. He sighed as he turned to the heavy steel door that led inside.

Once ensconced in the elevator he pressed the button to the first floor. He'd brought his backpack with him in wise foresight, so he didn't need to pass by his office. On the fourth floor, however, the doors opened, revealing Cuddy waiting outside. He didn't like the gleam with which she favoured him as she entered the car.

"Done for the day?" she asked as the elevator moved on down.

He mustered the doors. "No patient and I've absolved my clinic duty." No front for her to attack there.

"Good." She fell silent too. House glanced down at her with a growing sense of unease; he was sure about that gleam, and so far she hadn't as much as mentioned the board meeting – this couldn't have been all!

The elevator stopped. House limped out, throwing a casual goodnight over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, "Cuddy replied. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at eight."

House didn't break his stride. "My department isn't involved in the Senator's visit, so I see no reason to be here at eight."

Cuddy fell into step next to him with difficulty. "I know. Diagnostics is neither being inspected ..."

"There's nothing to see, for goodness sake!" he interjected.

"... nor have you offered help in any other form. All doctors not actively participating in the programme for the Senator are assigned to clinic duty from eight a.m. to four p.m."

That stopped him short. He stared down at her, scanning her face for an indication that she was scamming him. "Cuddy, you are an ..."

Her pager went off. She crammed it out and glanced at it, saying, "I'd so love to hear your opinion of me, but I must go. Bother!"

She strode off in the direction of the ER without a backward look. Just before she reached the doors of the ER the familiar thunk-kerplunk of House's cane-reinforced limp behind her brought her up short, nearly causing him to run into her. "House, what do you want?"

"Thought I'd come with you and check whether there's a patient for me in ER."

"Nice try, House, but you will _not_ sweet-talk the ER staff into handing over some hapless patient to you just so you can skip clinic duty tomorrow. _I_ assign patients to you – _you_ don't get to pick and choose." She pressed the door button and the doors of the ER swung open to admit her. "Now go!" she admonished, striding inside.

He waited a moment before following her. There was no way he was accepting eight hours of clinic duty without a fight. It wasn't that he intended to _do_ them – he'd doubtless skip most of them and sleep through the rest – but this was a matter of principle. Besides, a run-in with Cuddy promised more fun than anything he had lined up at the moment.

The moment Cuddy set foot in the ER, a distraught-looking couple rushed up to her. House assessed them mentally: Asian Indians, probably northern or central India judging by their complexion. The man's clothing was nondescript, the suit rather ill-fitting, yet his demeanour indicated confidence to the point of brashness. House noted the keychain in his hand – it sported the Mercedes star. Probably a successful businessman or IT-specialist, House decided. The woman, who seemed considerably younger than her husband, was dressed casually in western style, but wore some heavy-duty jewellery. There was little doubt in House's mind why ER had chosen to alarm Cuddy despite the fact that she had enough on her plate the coming twenty-four hours.

"Dr Cuddy, we are glad to see you," the man called out as soon as he spotted Cuddy. He stopped to mop his brow with a handkerchief before he descended on Cuddy to shake her hand. "Our Arun has had an accident. Gita, tell Dr Cuddy what happened."

"Mr Chatterjee, Mrs Chatterjee, good evening," Cuddy greeted them. "Arun? He's your oldest son, isn't he?"

"Yes," Mrs Chatterjee answered. "I told him not to ride his bike in this weather, but does he listen?"

"Is he being attended to?" Cuddy asked. A senseless question, for she would hardly have been paged if the ER staff were not attending to the child.

"Yes, your doctors are seeing to him, but we felt that we should like you to take a look. They seem very ... young, Dr Cuddy, and we want our son to be in competent hands," Mr Chatterjee explained.

House snorted audibly behind Cuddy, who turned round and hissed, "Shut up!" at him.

"Donors?" he smirked. Cuddy didn't deign to answer.

"I'm sure my staff is fully capable of dealing with anything that crops up, but I'd be glad to check with them myself and take a look at his chart," Cuddy smiled. She turned to House. "An accident while riding a bicycle. Not a case for diagnostics. You can go!"

"You heard Mr and Mrs Chatterjee. They want their son in _competent_ hands," House murmured.

"And that's you? The last I heard, your specialities were nephrology and infectious diseases!"

"And the last _I_ heard, your speciality was signing pay checks," House retorted.

A vein in Cuddy's temple throbbed.

"Ignore him. Let's go," she said, striding off at a pace that House found impossible to follow.

He trailed behind Cuddy and her donor couple, who were clueing Cuddy in on every detail of the accident and on many a detail not pertaining to it at all. Cuddy nodded, smiling perfunctorily as though listening. They came up to a bed in which lay a boy of about ten years who was definitely looking the worse for wear. A young resident stood next to him adjusting the IV while an even younger nurse hovered in the background; both lacked the kind of confidence-inspiring respectability that comes with age, greying temples and reading glasses.

"Good evening, Dr Lee," Cuddy said. "Mr and Mrs Chatterjee have asked me to check on their son personally. May I see Arun's chart please?" She held out her hand imperatively.

"Yes, of course," the resident said, his expression hovering between chagrin at being relegated to the position of a helper and relief at being able to hand over the responsibility for a patient with tricky family to someone else. He took a blue folder from the bedside table and handed it to Cuddy, carried out last adjustments to the IV drip, and then stepped back from the bed to make room for Cuddy and the parents. House sidled up next to him.

"Symptoms?" he mouthed, his eyes roaming over the boy. "Apart from the obvious that I can see."

"Concussion," the resident recited. "Bruising on the left side of his torso, left femur probably broken, a few ribs possibly broken."

House shrugged, prepared to give up his search for a patient and call it a day, when his attention was called back to the boy. Cuddy was examining his eyes with a pen light.

"Will you follow the light with your eyes, please?" she instructed.

The boy looked puzzled. He turned to his mother, who was positioned at the head of the bed. "_Ma, daktar ki bolchen_?" he asked.

"_Alor dikhe dekho_," she answered, looking surprised and worried at her son's lack of comprehension. "Look at the light."

"Altered mental state," House muttered to the resident, "and ... inability to move chin down towards chest." For Cuddy was now examining Arun's left leg. Arun tried to follow what she was doing, but gave up when he had to tip his head downwards to keep his gaze on her hands. "What symptoms of concussion did he show?"

"Nausea, vomiting, blurred vision," the resident stammered, somewhat awed at gaining the unwanted attention of Gregory House MD. Cuddy, distracted by their murmurs, shot House a quelling look before returning her attention to the Chatterjees.

"Arun has concussion and possibly a few broken bones. However, that's nothing to be worried about. Once the results from the x-rays are in, Dr Lee will be able to assess the damage and inform you how long he has to stay here. He's in very good hands, we'll transfer him to a ward as soon as possible and if you have any questions or doubts, don't hesitate to come to me. ... House, what are you doing?"

House had taken the opportunity to take out his own pen light and flash it into Arun's eyes. Cuddy took hold of his arm and tugged him away from the bed.

"Cuddy, there's something wrong with the boy," House stated quietly, with a sideway glance at the parents. He needed to interfere, but he had no desire to expose Cuddy in front of family just now.

"Of _course_ there's something wrong with him! He fell off his bike on a slippery road, so he's badly concussed, he's definitely got a fractured leg and possibly a few other fractures."

"I don't mean that! He can't move .."

"House, come with me!" She pulled him right out of Arun's bedside area. "You are _not_ using a simple road accident victim to get out of clinic duty. Sorry to spoil your game, but there it is."

"He's not a simple road accident victim. He could have ..."

"No, he couldn't! He's _fine_ apart from the usual injuries!" She rolled her eyes.

"Then why are you here?" he mocked.

"Because his parents are worried. My presence reassures them."

"Because his parents are donors, so you're sucking up to them. It would reassure them even more if I found out what's wrong with him."

"No, it won't, because there is _nothing_ wrong with him. If I let you mess around with him, you'll perform a whole lot of unnecessary tests, alienate his parents and cost the hospital one of our most valuable donors. Therefore you will stay away from him, period."

She turned back a few steps towards the Chatterjees. "I'll be in the hospital another two or three hours. Page me if you feel the need to consult with me over anything," she informed them.

Then she took a firm grip of House's elbow and propelled him out of the ER.

"No, don't even try, House. You will do your clinic hours tomorrow no matter what!" Cuddy adjured as she pushed him towards the lobby.

"What about the father's heart problem?"

"Father's what?" Cuddy turned to stare at Mr Chatterjee, her face falling. She breathed out heavily. "House, is this one of your blitz-diagnoses?" He nodded. "Alright, I'll have that checked out. But if anything is wrong with that boy that Dr Lee can't fix, he'll inform _me_. _You_ have caused enough mayhem for one day."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to," Cuddy told him. "Nevertheless, my boardroom is not the place for your team intrigues. Kindly fight them out yourself the next time."

"Ah. Did it piss you off that you had no clue as to what was going on?"

"_I_ had every clue; Dr Hadley didn't," Cuddy corrected. "You staged that very neatly: Dr Hadley in a safe occupation, Chase out of my line of fire, but what about Foreman?"

"Collateral damage," House answered abstractedly. He didn't like what he had just heard. She'd figured out about Chase?

"Yes, Chase," Cuddy averred, as though he'd spoken aloud. "I saw both of you disappear into an examination room yesterday morning."

"Oh, Cuddy," House intoned in mock dismay. "You've discovered our little secret! Don't tell Wilson – he is _so_ prone to jealousy and I don't want to sleep on the couch the next weeks."

"Don't worry, I'll be silent as the grave," Cuddy said drily, "if you'll let me in on whatever kinky stuff you did with the IV pole and bag you were toting."

House waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I'll _show_ you if you're interested."

"House," Cuddy's tone was serious once more, "the hospital has a policy on how to deal with employees with suspected or proven alcohol issues. I expect you ... no, I _don't_ expect you to implement it." She shook her head as though to clear it. "You sticking to hospital policy would be a miracle. But I _do _expect you to put a stop to whatever excesses Chase is indulging in, otherwise _I_ will start putting him through the steps of that policy. I don't care what creative effort you put into it as long as it is successful. Sending him away to Johns Hopkins, though it might get him out of my sight, won't get him out of my mind, so you'd better come up with something more effective."

"Chase is fine," House muttered.

"No, he isn't. And I won't tolerate any alcohol-related incidents in this hospital. You're his boss – do something!" With that Cuddy turned away towards the clinic doors.

That did it! "Don't we have a bit of a 'pot-and-kettle' issue over here?" he called. She didn't break her stride. "Hey Cuddy, you enabled me for how many years? You _knew_ I was addicted after that insane clinic hour wager, yet you never pulled hospital policy on me. You let me pop vicodin like it was breath mints. Have you forgotten that?"

He'd never mentioned it once, never confronted her with her part in his personal fiasco in all the months since his return from Mayfield, although his work environment had been one of the topics Nolan had covered with him in his therapy. Nolan hadn't wanted him to return, but no other hospital had wanted a former addict without a medical license but with a reputation that stank to the high heavens, so PPTH it had been.

Cuddy stopped dead. She turned on her heel, but House, attuned to her body language, could see from the slight sag of her shoulders that he was not to be treated to a witty repartee. She looked at him sadly before she dropped her eyes and turned away again.

"No," she said so quietly that he could hardly hear her, "I'll never forget that."

* * *

Wilson returned to his office to find the door that he was sure he'd locked before departing to check on a patient slightly ajar. It therefore came as no surprise to him to find House draped across his couch, idly tossing an unidentified object into the air and catching it just before it hit the ground next to the couch. As long as the object wasn't small, orange and cylindrical ...

"House, there are reasons why people lock their doors. There is a concept known as 'privacy' ..."

"Ten-year-old boy of Indian descent with nausea, blurred vision, altered mental state, impaired head movement."

"Ten-year-old? Sounds like concussion to me. Any signs of trauma? By the way, is there any reason why you are doing a differential in _my_ office with me instead of in _your_ office with your team?"

"Don't close the door! He fell off his bike. ER and Cuddy think it's concussion too."

Wilson looked puzzled, but left the door open a crack. He took a file off the shelf behind his desk and neatly sorted the board meeting minutes into it before he returned his attention to House.

"Then why is he your patient?"

House didn't reply, the distraction offered by his yo-yo apparently greater than his interest in his patient.

"Wait, he _isn't_ your patient! House, it's concussion. Keep your fingers off him, for goodness sake! Don't give Cuddy another reason for wanting to flail you."

"_Another_ reason? I haven't given her any reasons lately."

"No? She wasn't happy at having to gloss over your intra-departmental communication glitch during the board meeting. They must suspect she hasn't got Diagnostics under control." He frowned at House. "Why are you sabotaging Foreman?"

"Because he's a self-important jerk who deserves to be taken down a notch?" House suggested.

"You've humiliated him in front of Cuddy and the board. He isn't going to stand for that. Why do we have to have this conversation in a draught?" He eyed the open door with disapproval.

"We don't have to have this conversation at all."

"You're hanging out here to avoid Foreman," Wilson surmised. "How long are you going to stay on my couch: April? May?"

"Foreman and Thirteen have left already."

"Okay, I amend my statement. You're avoiding your team. The door is left ajar so you can observe them leave and return to your office once the coast is clear." Wilson fell into his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Why do you antagonize them if you can't deal ..."

House held up his hand to silence Wilson as he swung his legs off the couch. Voices could be heard approaching from the direction of House's office.

"Robert, can't we ..." It was Cameron's voice. Wilson's head jerked up. House looked interested.

"Nothing has changed, Allison." Chase could be heard letting out a sigh. "You want something I don't want. I'm happy here."

"_You've_ changed. Don't pretend you're happy. I can see that you aren't." There was a pause. "Look, if you're so fond of diagnostics, there's an opening in our diagnostic department. You can get out of here, get away from **him**, start afresh."

"Allison, I'm fine with House – I don't _want_ to get away from him. I've got a good job in a top team ... you're never going to understand, are you? Okay, I killed Dibala, I feel guilty for killing a man, but I'm _not_ sorry I did it. I'd do it again!"

Wilson's eyes widened.

Cameron's voice held a touch of steel. "Top team? Did Foreman and Thirteen tell you that they're leaving? ... No, I can see they didn't. Well, they are. They're going to UW Medicine. ... You really had no idea?"

"Shit, no." Chase sounded preoccupied. "House really screwed them, but I didn't think ... oh God, that means I'll have to handle the Johns Hopkins course on my own. There's no way I can do that. Did they say where they're going now?"

"Home, I should think. Robert can't we talk about _us_?"

"There's _nothing_ to talk about. What do I have to do to make you understand that? ... Where's that damn elevator?"

Chase's rather heavier footsteps could be heard retreating rapidly along the corridor, then the fireproof door of the stairwell squeaked, only to fall shut with a thud a few moments later. Cameron's lighter step followed, accompanied by a strangled "Robert" before the stairwell door performed its squeak-thud a second time.

"Wow!" Wilson finally said. "That was very enlightening. Let me see: Chase killed Dibala, Foreman and Thirteen are leaving while Cameron just happens to be back. Please, please tell me that you didn't know about any of this! Okay, that's asking for too much; tell me that you aren't implicated in any way. This isn't one of your diabolical machinations, is it?"

"Wilson, you have a suspicious mind. When Dibala 'died' I didn't even have my license back, so I'm not culpable. I didn't _know_ Foreteen were planning on leaving."

"But you're not surprised. And Cameron?"

"I knew she was coming down from New York to see Chase," House admitted.

"Chase told you?"

House had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. "Not exactly, but there had to be _some_ reason why he was pickling his liver in alcohol this week. So I got curious and ... checked his emails."

"You hacked his account? House, are you crazy?"

"So? I've hacked yours, and I hack Cuddy's account regularly."

"I'm your friend and Cuddy is ... Cuddy. But if Chase finds out and charges you with violating his privacy, you're done for. Your license isn't half a year old yet, you haven't got tenure, you'll be fired!"

"Relax! He won't find out unless _you_ tell him."

House sat on the couch rhythmically spinning his yo-yo, observing the movement as though it held the solution to all the mysteries of the world. Wilson steepled his fingers, waiting.

"Gotta distract Cuddy," House finally observed with the air of having found an answer to whatever problem was occupying him.

"_Cuddy_? You're losing your entire team and your reaction is to rile Cuddy?"

"I need to distract Cuddy so I can appropriate her little Mowgli."

"Senator Woodward's visit should prove a diversion."

"Not enough and much too late. The Senator arrives at eight. I have clinic duty from eight to four. If I can diagnose Cuddy's donor delight by then, she won't care whether I turn up or not."

"Eight to four?" Wilson, diverted for the moment, grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "I'm coming to film that. Why don't you pour some oil on troubled waters and do your clinic duty for a change? Cuddy'll go ballistic when she hears that your clever machinations have condensed your team down to Taub."

"_And_ Chase. He isn't gone yet. _No one_ is gone as yet."

"Don't kid yourself." Wilson, observing House's moody mien, changed the topic. "Look at the bright side of clinic duty: if Cuddy's boy-toy decides to abuse his new privileges so he can sneak in a kiss or a grope, you'll be in an excellent position to interrupt his nefarious activities."

House's head snapped up while his hand missed the returning yo-yo. "Lucas? What's he doing here?"

"He's supervising security tomorrow, _if_ I interpreted Cuddy's remarks at the board meeting correctly."

"Interesting." House's eyes narrowed in concentration. He rose abruptly and made for the door.

"House!" Wilson called. House paused, but didn't turn. "_Talk_ to your team. Tell them that you want them to stay, that you need them ... House!"

The door slammed shut.

_Demetrius: I love thee not, therefore pursue me not [...]  
Hence, get thee gone, __and follow me no more.  
Helena: You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant,  
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart  
Is true as steel.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 1]_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing or putting the story on their alerts. It's comforting to know that the work I've put into it isn't vanishing down the ether.

Sorry again about the format of the quotes. Any ideas, anyone?

And thanks again to my formidable beta Brighid45. May your muses get into line and get their job done!

* * *

**Act 2****, Scene 2**

_Puck__: Churl, upon thy eyes I throw  
All the power this charm doth owe.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 2]_

_

* * *

_

**9**** p.m.**

If House lost his whole team, there was no knowing what he'd do. No team meant unsolved cases, unsolved cases meant frustration, frustration meant pain, and pain meant vicodin. _If A implies B and B implies C, then A implies C_. Simple logic, but House was refusing to see it. Wilson sighed, drew his fingers through his hair and stumped through the snow to his car. On the way he saw another familiar vehicle – Foreman's. Hadn't House said that Foreman had left? There was a bar close by frequented by PPTH staff. Perhaps Foreman and Thirteen were there. Wilson changed tack, making down the road towards the bar.

A warm glow fell through the window onto the snow, the door opened and a couple came outside, arms around each other's waists, laughing inordinately, while a babble of voices from inside merged with the clinking of glasses against each other. Wilson peered in through the window at the corner favoured by House's team, tensed muscles relaxing when his eyes found what they were looking for.

He entered the bar, looking around casually as though he was just a bored, lonely doctor in search of company and a drink before heading home to an empty apartment. Waiting until he'd caught Thirteen's eye, he raised a hand in casual greeting and then sauntered over to the barman, taking his time as he placed his order, chatting the while and pretending to check out a lone female customer at the other end of the bar. He doubted that anyone as savvy as Foreman would buy his act, but there was no harm in trying. When he got his drink, he moved over to the nook in which Foreman and Thirteen were sitting. Foreman's face was deadpan as usual, but Thirteen's mirrored her suspicion clearly.

_No one's fooled here, hence __Plan B_, Wilson thought, opening with, "What's Cameron doing here?" There, let them chew on that bone long enough for him to sneak his steak past them.

"Trying to talk Chase out of a divorce," Foreman answered.

"Interesting," Wilson said making a show of deliberating on this information. "I'd have thought it would be the other way around. Chase always struck me as a hopeless romantic."

"Are you asking out of curiosity or did House send you?" Thirteen asked outright.

"Personal curiosity," Wilson averred, "motivated by living with House, thus having to deal with the inevitable fall-out that upheavals in his team cause. He reacts ... sensitively to change, you know."

Foreman leaned his head back, shaking it slightly in disbelief. "Man, are you trying to guilt us into something?"

Wilson was spared the necessity of answering that one by Foreman and Thirteen's pagers going off simultaneously.

"It's House," Thirteen, who had got hers out first, said. "A patient, he says." She looked at Wilson suspiciously. "Do you know anything about a patient?"

"He, ah, saw something in ER just now. It looked like concussion, but if he's paging you, there must be more to it," Wilson floundered. House, a disgruntled team, a patient who was taboo, Cuddy in major stress – it had all the makings of a giant fiasco. Couldn't House act like an adult, just for once?

"More likely he finally read his emails and figured he'll have eight hours of clinic duty tomorrow unless he finds himself a patient," Foreman surmised. This was so close to the truth that Wilson squirmed uncomfortably. If Foreman could read House _in absentis _like a book there was little chance of Wilson fooling him about anything. He'd have to go for the open, honest approach.

Foreman turned to Thirteen. "Why don't you go ahead while I settle the tab?"

Thirteen nodded and rose, shrugging herself into her coat. "Don't take too long, or I just might go for someone's throat."

As soon as Thirteen was out of earshot, Foreman leaned back, mustering Wilson.

"Have you come to tell us that House is a sensitive soul who expresses his affection by kicking our asses? It's not going to work."

That was a pretty accurate summary of what Wilson had intended to say, minus the bitter sarcasm with which Foreman laced his words. But there were advantages to being friends with House. For one, you learned to respond quickly to a change in circumstances, adjusting your strategy to the feints and diversions staged by your opponent.

"No," lied Wilson without a blush. "You have a professional relationship with House. He'd be the first to tell you that you shouldn't base your decisions on a misplaced sense of obligation towards him. I simply wanted to point out that your actions have consequences for Remy. _You_ have a quarrel with House, I admit, but _she_ doesn't. Quite the opposite, in fact, since Chase's role in the neurology course is smaller than yours would have been, hence she benefits from the swap. If you drag her into this, she loses her job here, her friends, her family, her whole supportive network - and for what? The best she can hope for, given the state of her health, are short-term contracts, probably not even a fellowship. Leave if you want to, but don't play on Remy's sense of loyalty to you just to put House's nose out of joint! House will shrug it off quickly enough, but Remy will have to live with the consequences."

Foreman nodded slowly, pondering Wilson's words. Like House, he wasn't one to court advice, but he wasn't immune to the dictates of logic. Watching him, Wilson felt reasonably certain that Thirteen's position on the team was secure, although Foreman himself wasn't appeased enough to stay. Hopefully he'd postpone his resignation until Wilson managed to knock some sense into House's head.

"Cameron mentioned that there's an opening in diagnostics at St. Luke's. You might want to check that out," Wilson suggested.

Foreman wouldn't hand in his resignation without a viable alternative lined up, so diverting him from the teaching post would buy a few days' time. Foreman nodded again.

"Tell Remy that you don't want to drop diagnostics. St. Luke's is fairly close, so you can keep an eye on her. She'll do the Johns Hopkins assignment, a last major success before ..." Wilson trailed off, letting the image sink in: Thirteen holding a course at the renowned Johns Hopkins Medical School, reaping praise and respect before kow-towing to the disease whose ravages were becoming increasingly obvious.

"Okay," Foreman said surprisingly. Wilson congratulated himself internally. That had been easier than he'd anticipated.

Foreman rose; Wilson remained seated. He needed to report back to House and stop him from making the kind of comment that would get Foreman's hackles up all over again, but if he moved now, Foreman would know that he was heading back to House. He'd give Foreman a head start and try to head House off before he clashed with his team.

* * *

Foreman crossed the parking lot in big strides, hurrying to catch up with Thirteen. He didn't want her wondering what he'd discussed with Wilson nor did he want her to confront House with her intentions before he had a chance to talk her out of resigning from her job. His instincts, honed to sharpness by years of self-preservation on the streets, alerted him to another presence in the seemingly deserted parking lot – a vague outline in one of the parked cars. He continued at the same unabated pace as though he had noticed nothing, while he scanned the offending car out of the corner of his eye. Long, blonde hair – a woman. She was resting her head on the steering wheel. Who in their right mind would sit in their car in this weather?

Foreman hesitated, his instincts on dark deserted parking lots battling with his medical work ethics; finally he turned towards the car. As he approached the driver's door he recognized the person in the car. Relief tinged with worry welled up in him. Frowning, he tapped against the window. He didn't want to get pulled into the muddy mire Cameron and Chase were wallowing in, but leaving his former colleague and almost-friend in a car on a hell-is-freezing-over night was not in the books. Cameron's head jerked up, her eyes alarmed. When she recognized Foreman she relaxed visibly. After a moment of hesitation she climbed out of the car.

"This isn't the best place to mourn your marriage," Foreman remarked.

"I'm n-not m-m-mourning my m-marriage," Cameron muttered through blue-tinged lips.

Foreman placed a hand under her elbow and tugged her towards the hospital. Once inside, he steered her towards the doctors' lounge, pushing her onto the couch before he headed towards the coffee machine. He returned with two mugs, hoping that his memory didn't deceive him in suggesting she had a preference for black strong coffee. She clasped both hands around her mug for warmth, staring into the murky depths as though reading something in the swirls and eddies. Foreman seated himself in an armchair at an angle to the couch.

"He's not the man I married," she said after a long silence.

"He never _was_ the man you married," Foreman stated cryptically.

Cameron glanced up, annoyed, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Cameron, he grew up without a father, taking care of an alcoholic mother. He nearly became a priest. _You_ saw in him an innocent carefree boy. That's what he'd _like_ to be, but it isn't him. He's a driven man. Men don't contemplate eschewing sex for the rest of their lives unless there's a powerful force driving them."

"So I fell in love with a lie?"

Foreman sighed. Trust Cameron to put the blame on someone else, not on her own skewered perception. "You fell in love with what you wanted to see. Don't blame him."

"So what do I do?"

"Talk to him. But don't believe you can save him. He doesn't need to be saved." He shifted in his seat to indicate that the topic was closed as far as he was concerned. "Wilson says St. Luke's Hospital in New York has an opening in diagnostics?"

"How does Wilson know?"

Foreman shrugged; he thought Wilson had said he'd got it from Cameron, but honestly, he didn't care.

"And why are you interested?" Cameron continued. "Weren't you going to teach at UW Medicine?"

"Change of plans. I'm not sure I want to teach."

"It's only a fellowship, and not a very well paid one at that. You're deputy head over here: you'd damage your career if you went for anything less than that." Cameron was puzzled – and suspicious of his motives, he could see.

"I can work my way up – I'm good, I have experience, I can lead a team."

Cameron's features set as she examined him. "You didn't bring me here to discuss my marriage or to comfort me. You were out to get information on the vacancy. If _you_ apply for it Robert doesn't stand a chance!"

Foreman tilted his head in assent.

"You don't care. It doesn't bother you that your taking the post would keep Robert and me apart!"

Foreman snorted in disbelief. "Cameron, if that's all it takes to keep you and Chase apart, then maybe you aren't meant to be together. Look, there aren't that many diagnostic departments in existence in this country. I can't be choosy."

Cameron rose from the couch, her eyes flashing. "You know, Foreman, you're as big a jerk as House! But regardless of whatever _you_ may believe, you don't have his leadership qualities. You _haven't_ got what it takes!" She stormed out, righteous indignation emanating from her like an aura.

Foreman grimaced as he emptied his mug. Cameron had been the easiest task on his to-do list, yet he'd botched that one up royally. He still had to ditch Thirteen _and_ deal with tonight's differential without going for House's throat.

* * *

_Helena__: Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?  
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?  
Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,  
That I did never, no nor never can,  
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,  
But you must flout my insufficiency?  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 2]_


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: _Feral Attraction _is the porn movie that Wilson starred in during his college days. If you haven't watched _Private Lives_ you won't understand the allusions to it in this chapter.

* * *

**Act 3, Scene 1**

_Quince__: [...] and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke.  
Bottom: Peter Quince?  
Quince: What sayest thou, Bully Bottom?  
Bottom: There are things in this Comedy of Pyramus and Thisby, that will never please.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 1]_

_

* * *

_

**10**** p.m.**

"Is everyone at their posts?" Quincy asked his walkie-talkie. The question was redundant, for there was no security staff member who couldn't be seen on one or other of the monitors in security headquarters. "Let's get going, shall we? It's 8 a.m. in the morning and Senator Woodward is approaching the main entrance with her entourage."

Quincy and Lucas were at security headquarters, checking via the monitors whether the Senator's movements were covered at all times. Rob, who was impersonating the Senator since he wasn't needed to observe the monitors during the run-throughs, entered the lobby. Piccolo and Leo strode forward to flank him.

"Slower, Rob, you're a lady. They don't stride like the giant in 'Jack and the Beanstalk'," Quincy instructed.

Lucas watched Rob as he disappeared from the lens coverage of the lobby camera, counting the seconds until he reappeared in the clinic camera.

"Three seconds. That's too long, _way_ too long. I'll have to reposition the lobby camera. No problem, though, chief. ... What's Piccolo doing?" Lucas grabbed Quincy's walkie-talkie. "Piccolo, you don't hold the door for the Senator!"

"No?" Piccolo looked around randomly until he spotted the clinic camera. "But ... that's what we do. We open the door for the people here, especially old people or people in wheelchairs, but also for ladies. They kinda expect it."

"Not tomorrow! You look out for disturbances and shield the Senator. You don't have time for that kind of hanky-panky."

"Then who's going to hold the door for her?" Quincy enquired. "Someone has to do it."

"There'll be enough ambitious, well-mannered doctors in expensive suits running around up there just fighting to do it," Lucas predicted.

The run-through dragged on, from the clinic to the auditorium where the Senator was to give a speech, to the board room for a snack and small-talk with hospital big-wigs, an inspection of oncology, lunch, then paediatrics and radiology, and finally to the Senator's departure. Lucas took notes all the while, muttering about camera readjustments, the need for more security personnel, the madness of keeping the clinic open, the impossibility of securing a warren such as PPTH, et cetera, et cetera.

"Okay," he finally said, "that's it. Tell you what: I'll go readjust the camera in the lobby and in paediatrics while you tell the men all this." He thrust a sheaf of notes at Quincy. "Next run-through in, say, one hour."

"Whazzat?"

"Just a few ideas on how to spot trouble without alarming the Senator," Lucas said nonchalantly. "It's nothing complicated, just a few tips. Okay, maybe it's a bit complicated, but it's not exactly rocket science. Just common sense, really."

Quincy harrumphed. Lucas, seeing that Quincy was distracted by his notes, moved over to the box with old security tapes, crouching down next to it. The tapes were labelled with place and date – if the tape he was looking for was in the box, it should be easy to find. He picked up the first three tapes: 'Lobby: 03/10/10', 'Paediatrics: 03/09/10', 'Clinic: 02/25/10'. It would take him less than ten minutes to sift through this lot and find the cafeteria tape - if it still existed.

A piece of paper jammed between two tapes caught his eye. He extracted it and read it with a sinking heart.

_Borrowed 'Cafeteria: 02/02/10'_. An illegible signature and today's date.

Damn! He'd bet a Benjamin on whose signature that was!

As far as Lucas could tell, neither House nor Wilson had apprised Lisa of the events in the cafeteria; if they had, he wouldn't have denied anything explicitly. He would have played the incident down, pawning the tripping off as an accident. As for the rest ... that could pass off as two full-blooded men (and former rivals) staking out their territory. He'd have denied provoking House, saying that House in his jealousy must have misunderstood him. Whom would Lisa have believed: the boy-friend she wanted to trust or the manipulative jerk who had a reputation for bending the truth to suit his purpose? He hadn't reckoned with visual evidence, not this far down the road. What the hell had made House dig out the tape just moments before he could get his fingers on it? He had to get it back before that bastard showed it to Lisa.

Lucas turned to Quincy, proffering House's note.

"Are doctors allowed to borrow security videos?" he asked with a touch of incredulity in his voice.

"'Course not! Gotta get it back." Quincy took the note and squinted at the signature. "What joker was that? Can you read the signature?"

"House."

"Ah. Then we can forget it."

"What?" Lucas choked. "I mean, he's a doctor here, what's special about him?"

"Everything's special 'bout him. I'm surprised he left a note."

Lucas wasn't. That scrap of paper was a declaration of war aimed at him.

"Anyways," Quincy continued, "he isn't held accountable for _anything_. Has the run of the hospital, comes and goes as he likes, does whatever he wants." He moved closer to Lucas and said with an air of confidentiality, "He's got something going with the boss."

"Oh, really?" Emotions rushed through Lucas so fast that he couldn't keep track of them. Surely Lisa wasn't still ... she said she and House had _never_ been ... did everyone at the hospital think that they were ...

"Yeah. She doesn't let on, doesn't encourage him in public, but _everyone_ knows. They say she's got a new boy-friend, but I bet that's just a cover."

Lucas felt an irrational desire to scream at the man, to shake him, to knock these lies, insinuations, allegations, innuendos, aspersions out of him. His hands were shaking with the effort of appearing calm, his nails were digging into the palms of his hands, beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. He had to get out of that room before he gave himself away.

"I'll go and see to those cameras," he muttered as he headed blindly towards the door.

Out in the corridor he leaned against the wall, a myriad of thoughts racing through his head. _Get a grip_, he told himself. _First things first_. He could confront Lisa later, making it clear to her that ... that what? That there were rumours at the hospital about her and House? She knew that, and she laughed at them. That she favoured House unduly? She'd tell him not to interfere in work issues, reminding him that years of friendship had forged a bond between House and her and that House's issues with pain demanded a certain amount of forbearance.

He preferred not to envision what would happen if House showed Lisa the video tape of the 'cafeteria incident'. The evidence _had_ to be recaptured. Lucas made for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time until he reached the fourth floor. It was dark in House's office and in the conference room. Lucas tried the door; it was locked. He peered inside, willing himself not to lose hope. No, there were a whole lot of coats and scarves hanging in the conference room, the table was cluttered, therefore the team must be somewhere in the hospital. Chances were that House hadn't returned to his condo since 'borrowing' the tape, hence it was probably somewhere in that office.

Lucas pulled out his cell phone. "Hey, Lise! ... Yeah, everything's fine. We've just completed the first run-through and will start the second one soon. I should be done around midnight. ...Yeah, don't wait for me. ..What I wanted to ask is can I have a general key? ... Yes, Quincy's got one, but ...Listen Lisa, House is spreading rumours about you ... yes, I _know_ that you don't care, but ..." He listened to Lisa for a moment. "Okay, Lisa. I get it. But I'm pretty sure that he's got something in his office that you can use to shut him up. Gotta be porn or something. ... What, you let him watch porn at work??? ...It's got to be _more_ than normal run-of-the-mill porn because he was sneaky about it. ... No, I didn't say he was a _paedophile_ ...Lisa? Damn!"

He glared at his cell phone in irritation, as though the gadget was at fault for Lisa's lack of cooperation. How besotted did one have to be to consider downloading porn at work normal, excusable, of little consequence? She'd just huffed, remarking that she'd have to get IT to close the loopholes in their firewall.

Next, Lucas considered the lock on the office door. He could undoubtedly break in, but the chances of being caught in the act by the returning team or other passing staff members were considerable. If Lisa found out about it after refusing to give him a key, she'd be more than displeased. It might be a better idea to talk Quincy out of his key.

Lucas wandered down to the gallery overlooking the lobby, mulling the matter of breaking into the office versus sweet-talking Quincy into entrusting his key to him over in his mind as he adjusted the camera focused on the main entrance. House was still in the hospital, as was Lisa. The longer he delayed the matter, the greater the likelihood that House showed Lisa the tape.

Below him Wilson entered the lobby, shaking snow off his coat. Lucas, looking down at him, had a sudden epiphany. Wilson's office was adjacent to House's; they shared a balcony, as Lucas knew from the time he'd spied on them to prank them. If he got into Wilson's office, he'd have access to House's balcony. The door from the office onto the balcony would be a lot easier to force open undetected than the door to the corridor.

"Hey, Wilson," Lucas called down.

Wilson looked up, his expression moving from surprise through distaste to polite indifference. Lucas shrugged inwardly. He didn't care what Wilson thought of him, since Wilson was just a pawn in the greater scheme of things.

"Can we talk?"

He didn't wait for Wilson's reply but moved swiftly to the stairwell. Running up and down the stairs, apart from saving time, let him savour the unadulterated joy of doing something House couldn't do. Wilson, being a polite dope, was waiting for him in the lobby as desired. Lucas favoured him with a winning smile.

"Look, Wilson, I know you're pissed off about the pranking. It got a bit out of hand, I admit. Hey, I got carried away – I thought you'd join in the spirit of the game ..." He trailed off at the look on Wilson's face. "Well, maybe not. I guess it isn't so funny when you have to pay for a new flatscreen. Yeah, maybe not so funny after all. Anyway, House and me, we're okay again, so I thought it would be sort of neat if you and I buried the hatchet, became friends ... well, maybe not friends exactly ..."

Wilson was staring at him as though he'd sprouted horns and a tail, so he cut it short, saying, "Shall we have a drink together? I haven't got much time, but maybe you know a place close by?"

"Okay," Wilson said with one of his eloquent shrugs.

Lucas let Wilson lead the way to the bar west of the hospital, chattering inconsequentially of this and that as they walked. The last thing he needed was Wilson picking a fight with him before he had a chance of carrying out his newest plan, so he gave him as little opportunity as he could to take umbrage or get a word in sideways. Wilson, looking slightly bemused, led him to the same table that Foreman and Thirteen had shared earlier that evening.

"What'll you have?" Lucas asked Wilson.

"Beer."

Lucas went over to the barman to get their orders, returning with two beers a moment later. He felt Wilson's eyes boring into him the entire time, an indication that the man was not as gullible as he'd assumed. Well, he was House's friend, and House didn't suffer fools gladly. Still, he, Lucas, had the odd trick up his sleeve that a law-abiding citizen such as Wilson wasn't privy to. He'd have that key off Wilson and be back at the hospital before Wilson could mouth 'Hippocratic oath'.

Lucas had hardly sat down when Wilson's cell phone jangled, indicating an incoming text message. Wilson pulled his phone out of his jacket to study the display, started slightly and said, "Sorry, this needs to be taken care of. Emergency with a patient. Excuse me. I'll be back in a moment." He moved swiftly to the exit, ostensibly to telephone in a quiet spot.

This, thought Lucas with a flush of victory, was better than anything _he_ could have offered in the way of distraction. He smiled as he pulled something from the inside pocket of his coat and leaned over the drinks.

* * *

Wilson stared at the text message. "Keep an eye out for Lucas." Was House a clairvoyant? It was more likely that House had seen them depart together. Still, Lucas in bff-mode freaked him more than a little. It would do no harm to check this out with House. He called House on speed dial.

"House, listen. I'm in a bar with Lucas. I think he's up to something, but I can't figure it out."

"I take it that he isn't in earshot."

"No, of course not." Wilson peered through the window at the subject of their conversation. "Hang on, what's he doing? He's slipping something into my beer!"

House snorted. "Great. Got him." He was silent for a moment. "What's he drinking?"

"Beer, like me."

"Thought so. Swap the drinks."

"How, oh great mastermind?"

"I'm sure the wood nymphs will teach you. If not, mention something about an interesting video tape that I'm insisting you watch with me the moment we get home." With that House hung up.

Wilson ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Interesting video tape? If this meant that House had sent Lucas of all people a copy of _Feral Attraction_, then he'd murder House, delete his soaps, trash his journals, make iron burns on his favourite Rolling Stones t-shirt, substitute his shower gel with a flowery girls' brand ... Then again, Cuddy must have told Lucas all about it anyway.

Swapping the drinks turned out to be easier than Wilson had imagined. He bumped against the table 'by accident' when he returned to sit down, spilling some of the beer on it in the process. While mopping up the spillage with napkins he casually dropped House's line.

"That was House with a 'patient emergency'." Wilson sketched quotation marks in the air. "There's some video he wants to watch with me, right now. The last time he said that it turned out to be a porn movie I'd unwittingly acted in at college. It was hugely embarrassing. Cuddy must've told you about the ensuing carnage here at the hospital – it's going to take me _months_ to live that down. House has probably made a sequel."

The effect on Lucas was nothing short of electric. He was staring at Wilson open-mouthed, his mind visibly contorting over what Wilson had just dropped. For a short empathetic moment Wilson wondered what youthful indiscretion of Lucas's had fallen into House's hands, but the moment passed quickly without leaving much of a trace. There was, after all, the slight matter of the spiked drink that threatened to poison their relationship.

Hence Wilson continued ranting about House's indiscretion in a mild vein: the foolishness of allowing him access to modern technology, his lack of natural inhibitions, his obliviousness to the demands of decency and friendship and so on, as he dabbed away pushing the beer glasses to and fro in a seemingly random manner.

"I'd better go and watch his latest find with him when we've finished our beers. There's no sense in postponing the inevitable. Besides, I'd rather know what he unearthed this time _before_ the entire staff get a copy."

Lucas was completely focused on him as Wilson picked up Lucas's beer and took a big gulp, leaving his own beer for Lucas. Lucas abstractedly picked it up and took a sip.

"I say," he said hesitantly, "would it be okay if I came with you and watched it too? I mean, you're really taking this with a sense of humour. I think that's just great. Yeah, _I'd_ be really pissed. Where are you going to watch it?" He couldn't mask the eagerness in his voice from Wilson.

"Yes, sure, come along," Wilson answered. "Whatever it is, it'll be all over the hospital tomorrow."

And the look on Lucas's face was worth having to suffer his company the next fifteen minutes.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Wilson called House.

"House? He's acting odd!"

"What did you expect when you drugged him?"

"I expected him to pass out or ... hang on, _I_ didn't drug him. He drugged himself," Wilson corrected.

"Same difference. Describe the symptoms."

"He's passive. He's sitting here doing nothing. He's _stopped talking_! What do I do?"

"Enjoy the silence."

"House, he could, I don't know, seize or something. I don't want to have to explain this to the police!"

"Call Cuddy."

"She'll crucify us! You won't see the clinic from the outside for a month."

"_I_ wasn't even there," House pointed out. "_Her_ boy-toy, ergo _her_ problem. Get her, show her, don't talk too much, don't mention that he tried to slip you Rohypnol."

"Rohypnol? How do you know it's ... oh bother!" Wilson examined Lucas, then he rested his forehead on one hand.

"Obvious drug for a PI, obvious symptoms," House explained. "Hey, Wilson, Cuddy's boy-toy wants to rape you. I wonder what that means. Does it mean he likes masculinity – I always thought Cuddy was a transvestite – or is it your feminine streak that turns him on?"

Wilson punched the disconnect button. He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how and why he had got involved in whatever this was. House doubtless would not deign to explain. Wilson dialled once more.

"Cuddy, it's Wilson. Yes, it's urgent, otherwise I wouldn't disturb you. It's Lucas, he ... he's in some sort of a funny state." Wilson took Lucas's elbow and tugged. To his surprise the other man rose without any resistance. "I'm bringing him to ER. Can you meet us there?"

* * *

_Titania__: Come wait upon him, lead him to my bower. [...]  
Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 1]_


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Right, this is where you need to get out your flow charts to keep track of what's going on. But don't worry: the third act is always the worst. This is the bit where the four lovers chase each other through the forest, popping up at random moments to shout insults at each other. After that things wind down and loose ends get tied up (unless I've forgotten all about them).  
This bit is mainly dialogue-based, with very little information on what anyone is thinking. I'm not sure whether it works, but if I'd added thought processes, this chapter would have meandered on and on.

* * *

**Act 3, Scene 2**

_Puck__: [...] in that moment (so it came to pass)  
Titania waked, and straightway loved an ass.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 2]_

**11 p.m.**

House was leaning against the wall twirling his cane when Wilson rounded the corner of the corridor outside the ER. He straightened up and limped alongside Wilson.

"She's in a real frenzy. Thinks he might have had a stroke." Wilson rubbed his hand over his face. "I should've told her it's just Rohypnol."

"You don't _know_ it's Rohypnol. You're assuming it based on my telephone diagnosis."

"That's even worse. I _know_ he's drugged, but I don't know what it is, and to top it, I'm letting Cuddy believe it's a seizure or a stroke."

"I doubt he'd be running to tell anyone what it was if _he'd_ managed to drug _you_," House pointed out with impeccable logic.

"Good point. So you think I should stoop down to his level."

"Think of it as cruising below your usual flight altitude to evade the enemy radar."

"And why," asked Wilson as they entered the elevator, "can't we tell Cuddy that it's probably or possibly Rohypnol?"

"Because I'm trying to save a life. The longer Cuddy is distracted, the greater my chances of doing so."

"How would you have played this if Lucas hadn't done you the favour of causing a diversion?"

"Oh, I probably would have drugged him myself. Or Cuddy. Although sex with her wouldn't be half as much fun if she couldn't remember it afterwards."

"House!"

"On the other hand, the sex I hallucinated with her was terrific, even though _she_ can't remember that either." He cast a sideways glance at Wilson. Wilson hated it when he talked about his hallucinations; his fear that House might disclose a delusion featuring Amber and some sort of sexual activity stood between them unspoken, yet tangible.

"Why am I going to your office with you?" Wilson asked instead.

"You want to know why Lucas tried to spike your drink. I take it that the question slipped your mind in the agony of having to prevaricate to Cuddy."

Chase, Foreman and Thirteen were in the conference room, Foreman reading the inevitable medical journal, Chase solving a sudoku, Thirteen drumming on the table with her fingertips. House rolled his eyes as he passed outside the conference room, preferring to bypass it and enter his office. He leaned over his desk, pulled open the second drawer from the top and extracted a video tape that he tossed at Wilson.

"Cafeteria: Febuary 2, 2010," Wilson read. "What ...oh!" He turned it over a few times as though that enabled him to see the contents. "Are you going to show it to Cuddy?"

"No. But Lucas doesn't know that." House snatched the tape back.

"I see." Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, bringing his hands up to his head at the same time. House watched, knowing that an outburst was imminent. The hands came down, palms parallel to each other, all fingertips pointing at House in an accusatory manner.

"Why," enunciated Wilson, "do my transgressions get plastered all over the hospital while Lucas gets off scot-free?"

House put the tape back in the drawer. It shut with a resounding snap.

"It's not because you care about Lucas's feelings. Nor do you care about an escalation in your little mating rituals if you're prepared to drug him." Wilson regarded House through narrowed eyes. House avoided eye contact. "You don't want Cuddy to get hurt," Wilson surmised.

House didn't answer. He turned towards the conference room. "Gotta face the lions," he quipped.

"Oh, by the way," Wilson added as an afterthought, "I talked Foreman out of taking that teaching post at UW Medicine. He's bothering Cameron about the diagnostician opening at her hospital, St. Luke's." House turned around, the look on his face anything but delighted. Wilson felt the need to elaborate. "That means you get to keep Thirteen, Chase and, if you sweet-talk him a bit, possibly even Foreman." House's silence was beginning to grate on him. "I'm not expecting you to kiss my feet or even thank me, but try to be, well, not _nice_, but ... _human_ to them for a change."

House found his voice. "Wilson, you idiot!"

_Oberon:__ What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite  
And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 2]_

* * *

House limped into the conference room. "Nausea, blurred vision, altered mental state, inhibited head movement. Go!"

"Why doesn't Taub have to be here?" Thirteen asked, her tone aggressive.

"He isn't worth the bother calling."

"Why? He lives as close as any of us." Thirteen was clearly not in a conciliatory mood.

"His humble abode might be close, but the fancy restaurant he's taking his wife to is in New York." House looked up to find all three fellows staring at him. "I heard him make the reservation. No matter, Ethan Hunt's team didn't feature a long-nosed dwarf either. Now go!"

"Where's the patient file?" Foreman asked.

"Haven't got one."

"Why does the combination of _Mission Impossible_ allusions and no patient file give me a very bad feeling?" Chase mused.

"Any signs of trauma?" Thirteen asked.

"He fell off a bike ..."

"Concussion. No case." Chase shot out.

"It's _not_ concussion. Would I be talking about this case if it were concussion?" House remonstrated, bending forward to emphasize his point.

"You would, if it got you out of clinic duty tomorrow," Foreman stated.

"Are you trying to con Cuddy?" Chase asked, amused.

"No, I'm trying to save the boy's life," House bit out. "It would be concussion if he had the slightest signs of trauma at the head. But his hair-do was as impeccable as Chase's, there wasn't a scratch on his head, no dirt, no snow, nothing. He took the fall with his left leg and hand. I doubt his head as much as touched the ground."

"It could be meningitis. Could he nod his head?" Thirteen asked.

"Cuddy threw me out of the ER before I could do a conclusive test, but it didn't look like it. Meningitis it is."

"Broad-spectrum antibiotics and a lumbar puncture," Foreman said.

"Exactly. Thirteen, get everything ready for a lumbar puncture. Page me as soon as you're ready. Chase, come with me."

He limped towards the elevator, a reluctant Chase trailing behind him.

"Who am I in your metaphor: Tom Cruise or Jean Reno?"

"Right now you're Prince Charming. Go to the nurse in ER and tell her Cuddy wants Arun Chatterjee's file."

"Why can't _you_ do that?" Chase asked petulantly.

"Why exert myself when the man whose pretty face bags him twenty chicks' telephone numbers in two hours works for me?"

House positioned himself on a bench outside the ER, moodily bouncing his cane on the floor while Chase disappeared into the ER. He came out again moments later, twirling a blue file, the sound of feminine giggles fading as the door of the ER slammed shut behind him. Chase proffered the file.

"You make me feel like Dorian Gray," he muttered.

House glanced up at him for a moment. "Be happy. People look at you and assume the best." He reached up to take a pen from Chase's lab coat.

"Only until they get to know me," Chase continued his own train of thought. "I can't live up to the illusion I create. When people get to know me, they get disillusioned and ..."

"... they leave you." House completed the sentence for him. He made a few notes in the file and signed it with a flourish. "So to pre-empt them, you file for a divorce before they can. Or should I say, 'before she can'? Here!" He held out the file to Chase. "What did you see in Cameron when you married her: a lonely girl, bereaved of her husband, rejected by her mentor?"

"What are you trying to say?" Chase's eyes never left House as he took the file.

"Nothing." House's eyes slid away.

"Hey, _you're_ the master of rejection!"

"Yep. I practically coined the word." House pushed himself upright so that he looked down on Chase. His voice was laced with sarcasm as he continued, "As you see, it worked just great for me." He sighed. "Cameron wasn't the only one who entered that marriage wearing blinders. Once you've got him on IV antibiotics bring him up for the lumbar puncture." He turned towards the elevator and proceeded to punch the button with his cane.

Chase examined the file. "House, this doesn't look like Cuddy's signature at all!"

"I'm relying on your charm to sneak that past the nurses."

* * *

_Hermia:__ Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse.  
For thou I fear hast given me cause to curse.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3 Scene 2]_

House ran smack into Cameron as he left the elevator. She cornered him at once, practically pushing him up against the wall next to the elevator as she surveyed him grimly.

"Whoa, careful, mind the cripple!" House protested.

"Are you encouraging him in this?" Cameron asked forcefully.

"If you mean Chase and the divorce, then the answer is no." He tried to move past her, but she moved with him.

"I don't believe you." Her chin was set.

"What do I stand to gain by the disintegration of your marriage? Contrary to your belief, I'm _not_ interested in you."

"I want him to come to St. Luke's. There's a fellowship for diagnostics that he could apply for."

"He's free to do so and resign his fellowship over here."

"You stopped him before," Cameron accused House.

"I did not. He's a free man. He _chose_ to stay." He stepped around her and continued on his way to his office.

She looked after him with her hands on her hips, her lips pressed into a tight line.

"You're a bastard," she fired at his back. He shrugged.

Cameron marched into the conference room where Foreman was making coffee.

"Where's Chase?" she asked.

Foreman studied her before he returned to doling out two teaspoons of sugar into his mug . "With a patient. Coffee?"

Cameron paced up and down hugging herself, barely nodding an answer to Foreman's question. Foreman placed a steaming mug on the table at the place where Cameron had sat when she'd been on the team. He waited until she sat down.

"Cameron, you've got problems. I can see that. But patting you on the back isn't going to help you."

"Helping you to get a fellowship at St. Luke's won't help me either, so excuse me if I can't get my mind round to _your_ issues just now!"

"Wishing that Chase will resign to go with you won't make it happen."

"Make what happen?" asked Chase, who'd entered the room unnoticed by either of them. Surprisingly, he neither questioned Cameron's presence nor seemed to resent it.

"We were talking about the vacancy in diagnostics at St. Luke's," Cameron explained. Her hands on the mug tightened.

"Oh, yeah. You mentioned it. I ... was thinking of applying for it," Chase said.

Foreman's eyebrows rose. Cameron swivelled to look at Chase, doubt and hope mixed in her features.

"Why?" she asked.

"You want me to, don't you?"

"Three hours ago you wanted to teach neurology at Johns Hopkins," Foreman growled.

"I didn't _ask_ to do it. I was okay with it, that was all."

"So what changed?" Foreman dug.

"I changed my mind, okay? What's bitten you?" Chase was mystified.

"When I want the position you change your mind. Are you messing with me?" Foreman challenged him.

"Who's messing with whom?" Chase's good-natured face darkened. "Three hours ago _you_ wanted to teach at Johns Hopkins with Thirteen, in case you don't remember. Then my wife turns up, and suddenly Johns Hopkins and Thirteen are forgotten."

He leaned with both hands on the conference table, glaring at Foreman, who bristled, rose and glared back.

Cameron's eyes darted from one to the other. "Is this some sort of a sick joke?" she asked.

Thirteen came in. "Everything is ready for the LP. ... Did I miss something?"

"Did you know that Foreman wants to take a job as diagnostician at St. Luke's Hospital, New York?" Chase asked, not moving his eyes from Foreman's face.

"No..." Thirteen was nonplussed. "We're going to UW Medicine. At least, that's what I thought," she added uncertainly as she scanned Foreman's face.

Foreman sat down again, breaking the eye contact with Chase. "I've decided against teaching."

"You've ... decided against teaching," Thirteen repeated, her eyes closing briefly. When she reopened them she registered Chase's aggression, Cameron's confusion and Foreman's front of indifference. She pivoted to face Cameron.

"Look, if your newest ploy is to make Chase jealous, that's fine, but leave us out of it!"

"I didn't ..."  
"She didn't ..." Cameron and Foreman said simultaneously.

"I want to stay in diagnostics, that's all," Foreman said. "I'm sorry if it affects your plans, but there's no reason why you shouldn't stay and hold the course at Johns Hopkins. I'll leave you my notes."

"Your notes," Thirteen echoed blankly.

"Children, stop fighting, or daddy will get annoyed." House popped his head in from his office. "I hate to interrupt your dramatics, but we _do_ have a patient. As long as I have no resignations on my desk, you are still my employees."

"We don't have a patient," Chase contradicted. "The parents have refused to consent to an LP without Cuddy's express approval. They want to talk to her first."

"Don't tell me that you let them get to Cuddy!" House practically yelled.

"No, they haven't talked to her yet," Chase appeased him. "She's kind of busy at the moment." He grinned slightly, as did House after a moment.

"Don't move," he instructed his team. "The case isn't out of our hands yet."

* * *

He swung past Wilson's office. Wilson was packing up for the night, placing files into his briefcase.

"Wilson, let's go!"

"I'm not coming with you. I'm finally done over here and I'm going home. Unlike you, I have every intention of being here at eight a.m., so I need to get to bed. I don't know what you're up to, but it's not my problem."

"It is."

"And that would be because?"

"Because you doped Lucas."

Wilson paused. "On _your_ orders."

"Do you think Cuddy will care?"

"You wouldn't tell her ... would you?"

House smirked.

"Oh, all right." Wilson slammed the briefcase shut, but left it on the desk. He followed House out of his office, meticulously turning off the lights and locking the door. "What are we doing and why?"

"_You_ are getting a signature from Cuddy for me. It saves my patient's life. An added bonus is that it keeps you away from my team, reducing the likelihood of further complications brought on by your uncalled-for interference."

"Hey, I saved Thirteen for you," Wilson objected.

House rounded on him. "Yeah, but for how long, pray?"

"What do you mean, 'for how long'?"

"How much longer do you think Thirteen can work for me?"

"I don't know."

"Then open your eyes! Even Cuddy has noticed."

"So pushing her into leaving helps her ... how?" Wilson asked in his usual manner.

"Teaching doesn't require her to stick needles into delicate organs."

"You could get the others to do things like that," Wilson said reasonably.

"Patients don't want doctors whose hands tremble uncontrollably, whose limbs jerk, who have to call their colleagues every time they need to do an invasive procedure."

"Since when do you care what patients want?" Wilson enquired. He gave House a speculative look. "You're not doing this for the patients, you're doing this for her. You want to spare her the humiliation of having to resign because she can't cope with the procedures, the long working hours or your crass demands any more. And you're pushing Foreman out ..." He paused to ponder on that.

"Foreman will leave sooner or later, no matter what I do. He wants his own department."

"... so that Thirteen won't be on her own. If they left for UW Med together, he would take care of her." Wilson continued undeterred.

"But _you_ had to interfere!" House groused, giving up the attempt to fool Wilson.

"My bad. So now what?"

"You can make up for it by getting my patient out of Cuddy's clutches."

* * *

_Titania:__ Come, sit thee down on this flowery bed,  
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 4 Scene 1]_

All hopes of getting to Arun's bedside without being spotted by Cuddy were dashed when they got to the ER. The curtain screening Lucas's bed off was ripped aside as they passed. House threw back his head and waited for the inevitable. It didn't come. Instead:

"House, thank God you're still here! Could you come here, please?" There was no mistaking the pleading note in Cuddy's voice.

"I'm always glad to be of service, mistress mine," House riposted. "But to do the deed right here in front of your present lover, who seems to be in some state of consciousness," Lucas's eyes were open, even if they seemed fairly blank, "seems slightly kinky, even by your standards."

Cuddy ignored his innuendos. "House, the doctors here say it isn't a stroke, but so far they have no clue what it is."

House cast a cursory glance at Lucas. He was definitely conscious, but drowsy and apathetic. "It's no wonder you're frustrated if he's always like that in bed."

"House, please!"

"It's such a turn-on when you beg for it." House hooked his cane over the foot of the bed, picking up the case file instead. He opened it, stepping over to Wilson as he did so and mouthing, "Get the boy's file."

There was nothing noteworthy in the charts, so House switched his attention to Lucas, checking his vitals although he didn't expect to find anything extraordinary there.

"Have you done a drug screen?" he asked.

"Lucas doesn't do drugs," Cuddy bristled.

"Do a drug screen," House advised.

"House, he doesn't ..."

"You say you trust my medical opinion," House interrupted her, holding her gaze.

She locked eyes with him for a long moment before she dropped hers, expelling a long breath. "Fine. We'll do a drug screen."

Wilson returned with Arun's file. House grabbed it, filled out a few lines and then turned to Cuddy, who was fussing over Lucas.

"Cuddy, I need your consent for an LP."

"An LP?" As she looked at Lucas her eyes filled with fear. "What do you think ..."

"Not for _him_. For _my_ patient."

Cuddy lost interest immediately. She snatched the pen he proffered, signed the form and thrust the file back at House in one smooth movement.

"That was easy," Wilson remarked as they made their way back to the elevator. House scrunched up his face in thought.

"House, you aren't thinking of drugging Lucas every time you want to perform a risky procedure, are you?"

"Nah. It's effective, but it's more fun when Cuddy puts up a fight."

* * *

House popped his head into the conference room. "Patient, lumbar puncture, go get! No, not Chase this time." He closed his eyes as though considering a difficult question. "Foreman."

"Why me?" Foreman asked.

"I've got Cuddy's signature this time, so your aura of medical competence beats Chase's charm."

Foreman frowned, but left for the ER to get the boy.

"Why are you going along?" Chase asked curiously as House turned to follow Foreman.

"Donor kid, hence he's the apple of Cuddy's mercenary eye. It behoves me as a senior member of her staff to attend to him personally." He winked as he disappeared.

Foreman, wheeling his young patient into the room Thirteen had prepared for the lumbar puncture, stopped short on seeing House perched on a stool blowing up a surgical glove. House let the air out with a squeak.

"Go ahead," he said, stretching the glove's middle finger. When he released it, it bounced back with a resounding pop. Foreman pursed his lips in disapproval, but turned the boy onto his side without any comment on House's activities.

"Fellow for diagnostics at St. Luke's," House commented politely. "A bad choice for your career. So why would you do it, I wonder?"

Foreman swabbed the area around the spine in silence.

"It's a win for me," House continued as though unaware of Foreman's black mood. "I get to keep Thirteen. Now I know you feel a deep sense of obligation to me for all the things I've taught you, but such selflessness on your part moves me deeply."

He peered at Foreman as though expecting a response. Foreman picked up the needle and syringe for the puncture.

"It's a good thing that you have no obligations towards Thirteen. It would be awkward if you were still in a relationship – you could hardly hold a job in New York while keeping an eye on her in Princeton, ..."

"Try to hold still," Foreman told the boy.

"... not once the disease progresses further. Huntingdon's progresses in her, you progress in your career. You get a fellowship and probably a department in a few years. She gets jerky movements and dementia." The stool squeaked in protest as House spun around on it. "It's not a nice ailment for family to have to deal with. Like Alzheimer's."

Foreman paused, needle in hand.

"But you know all about that. Your mother had Alzheimer's, didn't she?"

"House!" Foreman warned.

"Yes, it's more comfortable to be at a distance so as to be able to determine one's own degree of involvement, than to be in close proximity, having to face the disease's progression, the patient's rage and humiliation, the decline into dementia." He tailed off, only to recommence worrying the surgical glove.

"That's _not_ why I'm opting for the fellowship in diagnostics!" Foreman insisted.

"You could have fooled me. ... Do you know why _you're_ doing the LP?" House asked Foreman.

"Because you're the boss, so _you_ get to decide," Foreman recited like a schoolboy quoting lines from a poem.

"Wrong. I'm the boss, but the boss's boss has decided that Thirteen does no more invasive procedures on patients."

Foreman put the needle down. "Does she know?" he asked in a low voice.

"Nope. I didn't want to deprive _you_ of the pleasure of telling her."

"I'm not telling her," Foreman said, his voice firm, but his eyes held a hunted look.

House twanged the stretched finger of the rubber glove. "No? Next you'll say I should wait to tell her till you're fixed at St. Luke's. You can choose: either you tell her or I will do so with my best bedside manner."

"You bastard!" Foreman stomped out of the room, not bothering to take off his surgical gloves or his scrubs.

House sighed, pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves and picked up the discarded needle.

"You'd better not try out that word on your parents," he remarked to Arun, who grinned weakly. "Deep breath and hold still."

* * *

House wasn't surprised to find only Chase and Cameron in the conference room when he returned with Arun's spinal fluid. He waved the syringe under Chase's nose.

"Take it to the lab and confirm meningitis before Cuddy bites off my nose. 'Nose' being a metaphor for ..." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Cameron rolled her eyes. Chase rose and left.

Cameron was still on the warpath. "Not even a confirmed diagnosis of meningitis is likely to appease her. Foreman and Thirteen have gone to her to ask for a quick release from their contracts. Foreman was really pissed off."

"Did he say anything?" House asked nonchalantly.

"Only that you were a self-serving jerk and that he wouldn't wait around for a position in diagnostics to materialize. He practically begged Thirteen to join him at UW Med." She eyed him speculatively. "I'd say he's trying to sabotage you as much as possible now that he's leaving."

"_Schadenfreude_ doesn't become you," House remarked. "I assume you'll be telling me next that Chase is resigning so as to join St. Luke's." He returned to his dark office to sit behind his desk, leaving the door to the conference room open. Cameron, considering that enough of an invitation, followed him to take up a position in front of his desk staring down at him provocatively.

"Would that bother you?" she asked.

"It should bother _you_. It's an admission of guilt on his part where there's nothing to feel guilty about." He started up his laptop.

"In what skewered universe is killing a man not a crime?" Cameron flared.

"I'm not talking about Dibala. That's between him and his conscience. I'm talking about your marriage." House leaned back in his chair with only the light from the laptop screen illuminating his face. "He told you he killed Dibala, so you pounced on that, happy to have something to fix. _You_ decided how to fix it for Chase. It's too bad that he has a mind of his own that wants to decide for itself how to deal with the Dibala issue."

"I'm not trying to dictate to him how he should work through this 'issue', as you call it. What I want is for him to get away from this place, from _you_, so that he realizes how shallow and rotten he has become."

"Fool yourself if you want to," House shrugged. "But remember that Chase is the son who let his abhorred father make a phone call to get him this job, the employee who brown-nosed Vogler to secure that job. Chase never was the innocent lad you chose to see in him. He's a man with faults just like everyone else. Take him as he is or leave him, but don't expect him to live up to some ideal that you've concocted in that rigid mental system of yours."

House returned his attention to his laptop indicating, not for the first time that night, that from his point of view the conversation was closed. Cameron stared down at him uncertainly.

"So what do I do if he doesn't join me at St. Luke's?" she asked. Suddenly realization dawned on her. "You want me to come back!"

House looked up, shrugging. "From what you tell me, I figure that I have a couple of vacancies."

"So this isn't about Robert or what's good for him. This is about filling your inconvenient vacancies with as little trouble or change as possible."

House steepled his fingers. "Those vacancies aren't 'inconvenient', they are calculated. I needn't have pissed Foreman and Thirteen off, yet I did. Go figure." He swivelled around in his chair to pick a journal off the shelf. "You can work for me if you want to. Just don't get the idea that I axed them in order to get _you_ back."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Thanks to my faithful bunch of reviewers. It's good to know that you appreciate this enough to give me your detailed comments.

* * *

**Act 4**

_Titania__: Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.  
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 4 Scene 1]_

**3**** a.m.**

"No, Mom, I don't think either of us will be back anytime soon. Lucas has been admitted for observation and I don't want to leave him until I'm sure he's alright. ... No, it's nothing serious, just a precaution ...Mom, please go to bed! There's no sense in worrying – Lucas will be fine. ... Yes, I'll lie down for a few hours in my office. ... Mom, this isn't the first time I've done this. I'll be fine! ... Yes, I _can_ shower here and I have a change of clothes." Cuddy rolled her eyes. "The babysitter will be in by seven-thirty, okay? ... Yes, I will. 'Night, Mom."

She put down the phone and leaned her forehead on her hand. Saying that she was staying in the hospital because of Lucas was far enough from the truth to qualify as an outright lie. She knew now what ailed Lucas, even if she didn't know the hows and whys of it, and it wasn't life-threatening. The reason she was staying was one she didn't want anyone, least of all her mother to know, for fear that it might get around to Lucas.

House.

Was he coming apart again? If he was, she needed to be around to pick up the pieces and glue them together before he ... before he did what?

_Don't kid yourself_, she thought. _From the evidence that's staring at you he's already running rampant leaving a trail of wreckage in his wake, while so far you haven't done a _thing_ to stop him_.

Cuddy tapped her fingers on the case file in front of her. 'Diagnosis: meningitis, to be confirmed by laboratory results.' Two faked signatures. He'd ordered broad-spectrum antibiotics and a lumbar puncture for a kid with concussion. She hadn't rescinded the antibiotics ... as yet. Perhaps House was right and the kid had meningitis. Or House was losing it, seeing cases where there were none.

She picked up the phone again to dial the laboratory. "Spinal fluid sample for Arun Chatterjee, reference number ...," she squinted at the file, "053927-C. Are the results in yet? ... Yes, Wesley, I know you're alone in there.... No, I don't expect you to ... Two hours? Wesley, we're talking meningitis! ...Yes, okay ... How about ninety minutes? ... Thanks, Wesley. 'Night."

She put down the phone. The next piece of evidence against House's sanity was circumstantial, but all the more disconcerting in its various implications. It was a lab sheet bearing the name 'Lucas Douglas'. The left-hand column listed every drug of interest. The right-hand column read 'negative' in black letters for everything except ...

Flunitrazepam. The chemical name for Rohypnol, also known as the 'date drug'. Was there any reasonable explanation for why House would drug Lucas, 'reasonable' being a relative term with regard to House? Cuddy thought back with a shudder to the last twelve hours before House had consented to be admitted to Mayfield. He'd pulled every register known to him to annoy her. Did this 'prank' fall into the same category, was it therefore a sign that he'd lost all sense of relation again, or was there an explanation that put it within the limits of normal House-ian madness? She doubted that there _could_ be an explanation that justified subjecting someone to a banned drug. Why was he doing this? Surely he must know that today of all days she had neither the time nor the energy to deal with his puerile pranks.

She'd viewed the surveillance video of the lobby only to discover that it was worthless. It showed Lucas leaving with Wilson around 11 p.m. Half-an-hour later they had reappeared, Wilson leading a puppet-like Lucas. There was no sign of House leaving or entering the hospital at any point of time, yet Cuddy was sure he was involved in some way. Wilson had looked far too flustered when returning with Lucas to have drugged him in cold blood.

Cuddy rose. Lucas had been transferred from the ER to a room on a general ward once the results from the drug screen had come in. She walked there rapidly, thinking of the third piece of evidence of the evening. Foreman and Thirteen had marched into her office half an hour earlier tendering their resignations and asking to be released from their contracts immediately. Foreman had hinted that Chase might be leaving too. Three team members in one night!

House _hated_ change. He annoyed, bullied and intimidated his team members, violated their privacy and exposed them to ridicule. Nevertheless, he had developed an almost paternal attitude towards them, though he'd deny it hotly if confronted with such a charge. The only explanation that fitted such wildly erratic behaviour as he'd displayed towards his team tonight was that he was using again.

When Cuddy arrived outside Lucas's room she stopped abruptly. The blinds were open, giving her a clear view of Lucas, still in his bed, surrounded by a boisterous group of uniformed men. What on earth was going on in there? Cuddy threw open the door of the room. Instant silence descended on the group that she now recognized as the major part of her security staff. The only sound in the room came from the TV screen. Lucas looked blank. Given the amount of Rohypnol in his blood, this was hardly surprising. The security guards looked sheepish. Again, given the sounds emanating from the television, this wasn't astonishing either. Cuddy stepped swiftly to the TV and switched it off. Then she turned to face the bed and her staff.

"You have assembled in a patient's room to watch _porn_?" she said, not even trying to keep the volume down.

There was a general murmur of denial.

"Perhaps one of you would like to explain this to me." She glared at the oldest guard. Tom, she remembered, he was called. He shuffled his feet and looked at the others for inspiration.

"We came to see how Lucas is doing," a red-headed boy finally offered. "He was already watching that," a nod at the screen, "when we came in."

"Believe me, Lucas is in no state to work a remote control, let alone put a DVD into the player," Cuddy snorted. Since when did patients' rooms sport DVD players, she wondered.

Alarmed by Cuddy's raised voice the night nurse came in.

"Can you explain this?"Cuddy asked her with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the DVD player, the television set and the fidgeting men.

"The doctor said it was okay for them to visit. Oh, and the DVD player is courtesy of Dr House," the nurse explained. "He dropped by with a DVD and the player, saying that Mr Douglas had expressed an interest in the DVD. I'm not sure whether he's actually registering anything he sees, but I thought it can't do any harm."

Cuddy extracted the DVD from the player, briefly closing her eyes when she saw the title: _Feral Pleasures_.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked.

The nurse shook her head. "I only watched the first few minutes when I started the player for Mr Douglas." Defensively, she added, "It seemed quite nice, with fauns and nymphs – a bit like that Narnia movie my children enjoyed watching."

Narnia! Cuddy rolled her eyes – C.S. Lewis was probably doing somersaults in his grave. One of the security guys guffawed. Cuddy shot around.

"Out! All of you!"

When everyone had left the room, Cuddy dumped the DVD in the trash. Was this thing going to turn up in all corners of the hospital for the next six months? House was such a child! He hadn't drugged Lucas in order to force him to watch Wilson frolicking through the forest with scantily clad nymphs, had he? Not that Lucas would _need_ to be immobilized – he had the same childish sense of humour that House possessed. Heck, he'd probably _pay_ to be allowed to watch Wilson make a complete fool of himself.

The ringing of a cell phone interrupted her line of thought. Cuddy glanced around to locate the sound – it came from Lucas's coat that was hanging on a hook next to the bed. She went over to retrieve the phone so as to turn it off and slid her hand into the inside pocket. It came back up not only with Lucas's phone, but also with a small bottle of medication. Drawing both out, she proceeded to give the red button on the phone a few energetic jabs that effectually shut it up, and dropped it back into the pocket. About to do the same for the bottle, it occurred to her that as far as she knew Lucas wasn't on any sort of medication. Worried about possible interactions with the Rohypnol in his blood, she turned it so she could read the label. It was in Spanish, but the active pharmaceutical ingredient, Flunitrazepam, practically jumped at her.

Cuddy sat down heavily in the chair next to Lucas's bed. Fatigue fell on her like a blanket, while her thought processes, usually a continuous firing of synapses, slowed down to an occasional pop or a fizzle. She gazed at Lucas abstractedly while her fingers fidgeted with the bottle of medication; for a moment she found herself trying to run it up and down her fingers much as House had formerly done with his Vicodin bottles. She stopped herself, setting the bottle aside on the bedside table – House's Vicodin habit was not a good association to have in this context.

What did the Rohypnol in Lucas's pocket mean? It was, of course, possible that House (or Wilson) had planted the bottle there after slipping some of the contents into Lucas's drink. This was not, however, a very likely scenario. Wilson had brought him to the ER and House had been the one to suggest a drug screen. Had either of them had any interest in keeping the reason for Lucas's present condition secret, all they would have needed to do was to get Lucas out of the way for the next twenty-four hours or so. Chances were that he wouldn't have remembered enough to even consider a drug screen, so that their misdeed would have gone undetected. Now that she thought of it, the notion of House using an illegal drug on Lucas was not logical at all. House had access to the hospital pharmacy, so if he chose to drug someone, he'd use something he could get his hands on legally instead of resorting to dubious methods of acquisition that carried the potential for legal unpleasantness. No, of the three persons involved in this escapade, there was only one who was dependent on what the streets had to offer. A memory nagged at the back of her brain: a small package arriving for Lucas from abroad a few weeks ago – had it been from Mexico? Lucas had quickly possessed himself of it, mumbling something about technical gadgets for his work that could be bought cheaper south of the border. She hadn't really been interested anyway.

Did this mean that Lucas had drugged himself? Why would he do that? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense any more. Cuddy rubbed her eyes, remembering too late that she was wearing mascara. She wanted to shake Lucas out of his somnambulant state, but she knew that it was of no use. He was out for now, and even if he wasn't, she doubted that she'd get answers from him.

He'd left the lobby with Wilson. Wilson in turn had told her that they'd gone for a drink. That was when Lucas had gone catatonic. Why would Lucas want to go for a drink with Wilson of all people on an evening when he was unbelievably busy? Lucas was only marginally interested in Wilson – it was House he was obsessed with, as Cuddy knew from the casual questions and comments that he sometimes threw her way. Had he hoped to get something on House from Wilson? If so, would Lucas have considered incapacitating Wilson in order to act on whatever information he'd gleaned from him?

A memory rose bubble-like from her subconscious: Lucas phoning for a general key so that he could search House's office. The bubble hovered over her in iridescent glory, providing Cuddy with a solution of sorts. There was _something_ in House's office that incriminated House so badly that Lucas had invested time and energy this evening in an attempt to retrieve it. He'd said something about 'porn', but given House's openness about _that_ addiction, it was more likely to be something House really couldn't afford to be caught with.

Vicodin.

It fit in with all the other puzzle pieces of the night. If House was using again, Cuddy wouldn't put it beyond Lucas to know before anyone else did. Nonetheless, after what had transpired at the conference last fall, she'd rather not that Lucas put that knowledge to use before she had the chance to get House out of the line of fire. All things considered, she'd prefer Lucas not to have anything on House at all.

Cuddy closed her eyes, considering her options. Given that Lucas had somehow managed to incapacitate himself more or less right after he'd phoned her it was a pretty safe bet that he hadn't got around to searching House's office. She could give Lucas a metaphorical slap on the wrist to keep him off House, but otherwise ignore the possibility of a relapse. This was the easiest option, the one that she'd like to choose, the only halfway attractive option.

Other options included confronting House (even if he was guilty as hell, he'd do such a convincing mixture of hurt and indignation that she'd end up scurrying away in a cloud of guilt at doubting him), demanding a urine sample (ouch, he'd be scathing, asking why she hadn't manipulated his toilet or which coffee mug he should use this time), asking Wilson to spy on House (Wilson followed his own agenda and was as trustworthy as a fork-tongued adder) or conducting random searches (he'd hide his stash at home or in his car, where she had no license to search). If she did catch him red-handed or cow him into an admission (_dream on, Lisa!_) she'd have to pull hospital policy on him: regular urine samples, proof of attendance for a certified therapy, impeccable work attendance record – she shuddered to think of what House would say to such a catalogue of humiliating concessions. He'd never consent, not unless he crashed completely again. If he didn't consent, she'd have to fire him; that was hospital policy.

This was hospital administration at its least attractive, a real bitch with a hangover. Cuddy didn't want to implement hospital policy, she certainly didn't want to fire House and she would definitely not consider this option were there not another memory, this one not in her subconscious, but buried deep where sunshine rarely illuminated it. It was a telephone conversation with Dr Nolan, a displeased, reprimanding Dr Nolan, about eight weeks after House's admission to Mayfield.

He'd called her to discuss 'her handling of addiction issues at the workplace'. 'Enabling behaviour' had been the kindest of his epithets. She'd been 'egoistical and self-serving', placing the hospital's interests and her career above the health and the well-being of an employee. She'd 'sought harmony at all costs', avoiding conflict. He'd concluded that she should count herself lucky that House showed no inclination to sue her or the hospital.

Cuddy had risen in her own defence. "I was trying to help him, as a friend. He wouldn't have listened to me. Had I tried to pull hospital policy on him, he would have let me fire him. Then where would he be now? In some gutter, scoring illegal drugs, doing heaven knows what to his health."

"Dr Cuddy, had you fired him four years ago, as you should have, he'd have reached the bottom line that much quicker and sought help much earlier. As for his health, do you have any idea what his liver values were like when he got here? No? If you call that health care, he's better off in the gutter!

"Just so we understand each other, Dr Cuddy: I will _not_ permit him to return to PPTH. I can't force you to stay away from him once he is released, but I would strongly advise you to do so. It's in his best interest. He is adept at manipulating you, while you have persuaded yourself that your method of dealing with him and his addiction is to his benefit. It isn't. If you really _are_ his friend, you will let him go. I will find a new hospital and a new environment for him."

"Well, good luck with that! You won't find anyone idiotic enough to take him except for me," she'd muttered after he'd put down the phone. She'd started dating Lucas a week later.

Her prediction had been correct – Nolan had underestimated the difficulties associated with finding employment for Gregory House – but her little victory had tasted bitter, giving her no pleasure.

It was an unpleasant memory, so she picked it up between thumb and forefinger to drop it back into the dark deep hole where it belonged. Nevertheless, the last thing she needed was another conversation of that sort to add to her collection of distasteful situations that were best forgotten. If she messed this up, if she ignored House's addiction issues or tried to gloss over them, Nolan would (rightly) subject her to a dressing-down that would make House's outbursts seem a panegyric.

So it was decided – she would have to find out whether House was using again. She decided to focus on that, pushing the question of what was to be done _if_ she discovered that he had indeed had a relapse to the back for the moment. If Lucas believed that there was something incriminating in House's office, chances were that he was right.

Cuddy rose from the chair. She glanced undecidedly at Lucas. An obscure part of her brain registered that her worries about House's potential relapse had driven all questions about how Lucas had been incapacitated clear out of her mind. Yet she felt pretty sure that Lucas himself was to blame for his state, his attempts to use Wilson to get at House probably having backfired in this spectacular manner, though heaven alone knew what he'd hoped to achieve through Wilson.

On the one hand she was upset at him – if this was pranking House and Wilson, then it was definitely getting out of hand. Opossums in bathtubs were one thing (he'd never admitted to the pranking, but it carried his signature), but trying to drug someone so as to get at potentially harmful information - she suspected that Lucas wasn't beyond using such information as a source for blackmail - was a different cup of tea altogether. On the other hand, he _was_ her boy-friend and hence entitled to her trust and confidence until proven guilty. Perhaps there was some absolutely sane and logical explanation to this that cleared him completely, so she should really wait until he was sober again before she condemned him. Bending over him she gave him a quick hug, then she left his room.

House's office was dark, but his team was assembled in the conference room over inevitable cups of coffee. Cuddy flicked on the light in House's office and strode over to his desk, ignoring the surprised looks on the team members' faces.

The top drawer yielded a bottle of medication. She paused; the label stated that it was ibuprofen, but then, House would hardly be likely to carry around his stash in bottles clearly labelled 'Vicodin', would he? Resolutely she pocketed it, ignoring the voice in her brain that was crying, 'He's going to torture you for this if you're wrong. He'll pull out your nails with tweezers, extinguish cigarette butts on your stomach, play the piano on your guilt!'

At first glance the second drawer held nothing of interest: odds and ends, a few CDs, a yo-yo, a red lollipop, a video cassette. Hang on, she'd seen one of those just an hour or so ago! She drew it out to read the label. Yes, it _was_ a hospital surveillance tape. Really, she'd have to talk to him about not taking those – there'd be hell to pay if someone found out that the hospital was lax about implementing data protection regulations.

There was a post-it on the back adorned with House's untidy scrawl: 'Hey, Lucas. This is what you're looking for. You're welcome to it.'

Cuddy re-read the message thrice without comprehending it. What would Lucas want with a four-week-old surveillance tape? But whatever his motive, this was clearly the reason for part of tonight's strange upheavals. She picked up House's phone.

"Mr Quincy? I need a screen and a video player in my office. Thank you."

Nodding to House's mesmerized team, she departed with tape and medication.

* * *

The insistent beeps cut through his dreams, making him shake his head groggily as he groped for his pager. Chase. His watch told him that it was 4 a.m. while his leg informed him that he'd missed his evening dose of pain medication, courtesy of the distraction offered by the case and, unwittingly, by Lucas. He limped out of the doctors' lounge, into which he had fled to escape scenes of emotional interaction with his team, cursing himself for leaving his cane in his office. Normally he managed fairly well without it, but he'd been on his legs for too long today.

Chase greeted him with, "It's not meningitis."

"Damn. What else could it be? ... Come, come, we need some ideas before Cuddy gets wind of the test results and throws a wobbly."

Foreman and Thirteen were back from wherever they had disappeared to, but were still giving him the freezer treatment.

"You can save the prima donna act for later," House snapped at them. "For now you're my employees, so you'll diagnose my patient."

"It's concussion," Foreman said in a bored voice, his expression saying, _I'm tired,_ _we don't have a case AND you're a jerk_.

"Acanthamoeba," and, "Brain tumour," Cameron and Thirteen said in unison.

"Brain tumour it is," House said without hesitation. "Foreteen, go do an MRI. Go before Cuddy gets wind of the test results."

"Why can't it be acanthamoeba?" an irritated Chase asked.

"Congratulations, Cameron. Your knight of the shining hair rises to your defence again," House smirked. "Because if it's acanthamoeba, then firstly, we can't confirm our diagnosis until he's dead and secondly, he's as good as dead. That could be considered a definite pro, seeing as we'd get to confirm our diagnosis, but as you might have noticed over the years, patients' families tend not to appreciate a correct diagnosis if it takes death to confirm it. Therefore a brain tumour is better for everyone concerned. Oh, and thirdly, acanthamoeba is extremely rare, whereas brain tumours aren't."

"I thought you liked 'rare'," Chase interposed.

"I do. But we aren't talking of a case that has boggled any number of physicians. We are talking of a boy I stumbled across in the ER. He isn't likely to be the Kohinoor among our diamonds."

He limped to his office to retrieve his cane and his pain medication for which his leg was yelling with a vengeance by now. Exhaling a sigh of relief, he sank into the chair behind his desk and pulled open the top drawer. His medication was gone. He stared at the drawer. Then he rose carefully, feeling the pockets of his jeans.

Chase had followed him to the office. "Um, Cuddy was here. She ... took your medication."

Slowly House looked up to study Chase's face. Chase didn't avoid his gaze, but he squirmed uncomfortably. The implications of Cuddy's actions were clear, even if her reasons weren't, so Chase's eyes mirrored his speculations – was House using again? – as well as sympathy and possibly pity for the older man. House broke eye contact first, nodding a dismissal at Chase as he sank into the chair again.

Cuddy had taken his medication. Either she thought he'd slipped Lucas something or she believed that he was on Vicodin again. He considered the ramifications of both options, his fingers twisting a pencil round and round.

It didn't matter whether she thought him capable of drugging Lucas with Rohypnol since she couldn't have found any in his office. All she had was his prescription-strength painkiller because he didn't possess anything else. Furthermore, contrary to what she believed, he did _not_ slip people banned drugs just for the fun of it. He'd knock out a patient who refused life-preserving treatment, or Wilson to prevent his professional suicide, but he'd never dope Lucas just to irritate her.

He turned the other possibility over in his mind. Why would Cuddy fear that he was on Vicodin again? He retraced his actions of the day, but came up with nothing particularly outrageous or out of character. He'd tried to shirk clinic duty, had cast doubts on her diagnosis of that Indian boy, stolen her patient, messed around with his team, slipped a porn DVD into Lucas's room – nothing unusual at all.

Whatever she suspected him of, he knew he wasn't guilty. He wasn't using nor had he drugged Lucas. Within him something bubbled up, a hot heavy mass that lumped in his throat threatening to choke his thoughts. Why couldn't she trust him? Why didn't she just _ask_ whether he'd had a relapse?

_Idiot_, he told himself. _If you were using again, you'd lie about it. Besides, trusting you means not trusting Lucas._ For one thing was clear – there was some connection between Lucas and her search tonight. He clamped the lid down tight on his emotions, forcing himself to focus on the primary issue: how to deal with Cuddy after her search.

His eyes roamed the office, wondering whether anything else was missing. On a sudden premonition he ripped open the second drawer of his desk. _The tape, damn!_ He'd anticipated Lucas trying to steal it - indeed, that had been the point of the whole exercise: getting Lucas's panties into a knit over the tape until he did something really stupid to get it, providing entertainment for House and Wilson - and had been vigilant until Lucas had gone into a haze, but he'd seen no reason to guard it from Cuddy, who surely had known neither of its existence nor of its significance.

Now he had two good reasons for confronting Cuddy as quickly as possible. He needed his pain medication desperately and he had to stop her from watching the cafeteria surveillance tape. He kicked himself mentally for sticking the post-it onto it that must have caught her attention. Still, there was a good chance, even if she was watching it right now, that she hadn't reached the decisive sequence as yet - there had to be at least six hours of inconsequential garbage on that tape - or that the camera hadn't caught much of what had happened. She'd feel guilty about swiping his medication, so he could use that to get the tape back from her. Then he'd delete or destroy it as soon as possible.

When he got to the clinic Cuddy's office was dark, and briefly he thought she might have gone home. But as he approached the anteroom, he saw that he was mistaken. There _was_ light; a television screen was flickering, illuminating Cuddy's face as she sat on her couch. Her attention, however, wasn't on the screen. She was curled up in a corner, tissues scrunched in her hand, her eyes unfocused as bitter tears ran down her cheeks.

On second thoughts, House decided, turning away before she could notice him, he didn't need his pain medication yet after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**: Last chapter - yeah, finally done! - and this is where Shakespeare and I part company. I couldn't stomach the thought of writing another pseudo-funny scene with the security guards, so I took the easier route.

Again, thanks to my marvellous beta Brighid45, whom I swamped with this stuff instead of letting her continue with her story in peace. And thanks to everyone for reading and leaving reviews.

* * *

**Act ****5**

_Titania__: My Oberon, what visions have I seen!  
Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 4 Scene 1]_

**7:30**** a.m.**

D own in the lobby there were first signs of the great event to come. The cleaning crew were giving the glass panes a final shine, the nurses at the front desk were checking their make-up and patting their hair down while the front doors opened and closed in a steady rhythm as staff members entered the hospital for the 7:30 a.m. deadline. Among the early entries was Wilson, resplendent in his best suit and a tie that shouted 'special occasion'. From inside the hospital two security guards appeared to take up their posts, one on each side of the entrance.

House took all this in with one glance as he headed towards a central position on the gallery from which one had an excellent view of the entrance, the lobby desk and the clinic doors while able to withdraw quickly to avoid detection. He'd come in the hope of heading Wilson off to give him young Arun's file and get a new scrip for his painkillers, thus circumventing the need to deal with Cuddy on either issue, but his hopes of achieving that were effectually quashed at the sight of the lone figure occupying his preferred spot on the gallery. Although Cuddy didn't turn round as he drew nearer, he knew that his cane-aided limp, heavy as it was due to the pain he was in by now, was too loud not to have been heard the moment he'd left the elevator. He joined her, leaning on the balustrade next to her as he tried to gauge her mood.

She was freshly showered, her make-up was carefully applied, she emanated a hint of expensive perfume and her business suit was a bold statement of femininity disguised in sleek tailoring. A closer look, however, revealed that she'd applied foundation under her eyes to gloss over the dark rings, that her eyes were blood-shot, whether from lack of sleep or crying was anyone's guess, and that she was paler than usual, the lines in her face more prominent. Rarely did she look her age, but today she did so with a vengeance. She was twisting a small white cylinder in her hand. He surmised that she'd been watching for him, much as he had intended to lie in wait for Wilson.

House extended the file he was holding. "Swap?" he asked. "I can offer Ependymoma."

Cuddy took it, only acknowledging his presence now that he spoke to her. She gave the file a puzzled look that was chased away by dawning realization. "Oh, damn, I'd forgotten all about him." She glanced at the MRI, closed her eyes for a moment and shut the file again. "I'll have to tell his parents."

"Could be worse. Get Wilson to tell the parents – the boy is his now."

"They came here thinking he had concussion. A brain tumour is a _lot_ worse. No, I'll have to find the time to talk to them. You were right about the father, too," she added, visibly chagrined. "He has a diagnosed heart condition, but from what his wife told me, it seems that he hasn't been following his physician's advice closely."

"Patients are idiots," House shrugged. "My painkillers," he reminded her.

Cuddy extended them to him. "I'm ... sorry," she said hesitantly.

House nodded, that small rare head movement on his part that encompassed acceptance, understanding and a wish not to delve deeper into a matter. He prised open the lid with one hand, shook two ibuprofen into the palm of the other and dry-swallowed them, slipping the bottle into the pocket of his jeans as he tipped his head back. He tried not to think of the warm buzz that would have ensued had he swallowed two vicodin instead of ibuprofen, not to mention fast pain relief, followed by a gradual dulling of his feelings. Talking of feelings, it was best that he depart before Cuddy decided to go into the details of what had made her search his office. He pushed himself upright, but Cuddy spoke before he could flee.

"They want to be released from their contracts with immediate effect," she said, her brow furrowed. "I told them I'd let them go immediately if you consented, otherwise they'll have to sit out their period of notice."

This, apart from being not _quite_ what he'd expected, was too rapid a jump in associations for his exhausted mind. Looking at Cuddy, House saw that her attention was centred on the lobby again. He followed her angle of vision. Below them Thirteen and Foreman appeared, making for the exit.

"I don't consent."

Cuddy turned to stare at him. "I got the impression that you _wanted_ them to go. You've pissed them off so badly that I doubt they'll be of any use to you if you make them stay the required three months."

"_Someone_ has to teach the diagnostics course at Johns Hopkins. Feel free to use them in the clinic in whatever spare time they have whenever they aren't in Maryland."

"You put Chase down for Johns Hopkins, not Foreman."

"Ooops! My bad. You know I suck at paperwork. Chase can't tell a neuron from a moron. No, Foreman's the man for you. That course is a sinking ship without him."

Cuddy shook her head at him with something close to a smile on her face for the first time. "Can't you just tell them what you want instead of wreaking havoc half the night? Do you have any idea of the scene those two caused in my office at 2 a.m. in the morning?"

House sighed. "She had to have the feeling that _she_ was choosing to go, not that I was dictating it to her. I've been fired often enough to know what it's like, and heaven knows that I deserved it. She doesn't. If she teaches that course at Johns Hopkins, she'll be in a better negotiating position for UW Med and so will Foreman."

"But you don't have a team anymore," Cuddy noted gently.

House leaned forward over the balustrade again. Chase came into sight with his arm around Cameron. Some instinct made him look up and back, where he spotted House. He nudged Cameron, who looked up, smiled and waved. House nodded at them.

Cuddy stared, then she rubbed her forehead. "I must be really tired," she sighed.

"I have Taub, Chase and Cameron," House said, ignoring her comment, "which fulfils my definition of a team."

"Oh, good, that _is_ Cameron and I'm _not_ hallucinating."

"Tsk-tsk, Cuddy, it's very tactless of you to mention the 'h'-word in this spot. Might embarrass me," House teased.

Cuddy ignored him in turn. "Cameron has agreed to come back?"

"She didn't flip me the bird, did she? Then I guess that's a yes."

"Good. Or is she coming back because of you?"

"Ah, Cuddy, jealous?"

"Idiot!" She turned to leave. "House?"

He didn't like the tone of her voice – too much hesitation, too little determination. A hesitant Cuddy was a vulnerable Cuddy, a close-to-tears Cuddy, a guilt-inducing Cuddy. Not that there was anything to feel guilty about, he told himself robustly as he turned to face her, leaning hard against the balustrade since the ibuprofen showed no effect as yet.

"Are _you_ responsible for Lucas's state?" she continued, trying for nonchalance, but failing dismally.

"How come no one ever blames Wilson?" House meditated aloud with a mock-martyr gaze.

"Don't evade my question, House."

He was silent, looking her straight in the eyes but not knowing what to say. He'd told Wilson to swap the glasses, but if Lucas hadn't spiked Wilson's drink, nothing would have come of that. Was that a _yes_ or a _no_, then? He grimaced.

Her shoulders slumped. "I thought not," she said quietly. His surprise must have shown, for she smiled grimly. "You have 'pity' stamped all over your face," she explained. "How'd he manage to drug himself?"

"Ask him," House evaded, pleasantly surprised that she believed him or rather, that she believed _in_ him, but dismayed that she could read him so easily.

"Is he likely to tell me? What an ass! .... And I'm an idiot, I guess," she added.

"How is he?" House asked. He didn't want to get into a character assessment of his rival, not with Cuddy.

"The ward phoned me two hours ago saying I could take him home. I ... said I was busy."

"Well, you are now." House nodded towards the entrance where the blue lights of Senator Woodward's police escort could be seen in the distance.

"I wasn't then," Cuddy admitted. She grimaced at the approaching lights, straightened her shoulders and moved towards the stairwell.

He contemplated her back, the tightness of her neck muscles, and said on a sudden impulse, "I'm going home now. I can drop him off on the way."

"Would you?" She turned, relief in her eyes.

"Yep." House gestured at the small crowd approaching the hospital entrance in the dawning light. "Your cue, I think."

"Oh dear, yes." She hesitated. "Do I look a mess?"

"Only if one can read the signs. You'll do fine."

"Thank you, House." A short pause. "You did good last night." This time, she really left.

House watched her leave and reappear downstairs, shoulders squared, a smile on her face as she strode forward to greet her guest. Then he, too, turned away and limped to the elevator.

_

* * *

Bottom__: I have had a dream, past the wit of man, to say, what the dream was. Man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 4 Scene 1]_

"Now remember: no driving, no working with machines, no alcohol and no other drugs for the next twenty-four hours," the nurse from Lucas's ward repeated once more, pushing his wheelchair out of the elevator into the lobby. "Are you sure you'll be okay with him?" she asked House, mustering his cane and his leg.

"Are you offering to come along and help me put him to bed?" House asked suggestively. She gave him a cold look, spun around and left. "I thought not. I'm really good with the cane, though. That's a metaphor!" he yelled after her.

"I c'n walk," Lucas protested from the wheelchair.

"Maybe. But I can hardly navigate the slippery parking lot as it is, let alone support you if you slip, so you're staying where you are." He hitched his cane over the back of the wheelchair as he pushed Lucas out into the cold morning air. "Do you remember what happened last night?" he asked casually.

Lucas's face worked as he tried to focus. "Beer with Wilson." His speech was still slightly slurred. "'S odd!" He tried to look at House, but quickly gave up. "Damn. Wilson switched glasses, righ'?"

"Yeah." House saw no sense in denying the obvious.

"Wha' did you do to me?" There was panic in his voice.

"Oh, Wilson and I had our wicked way with you, made a few clips to post on YouTube, sent the link to Cuddy ..." Lucas was squirming, trying to rise from the wheelchair. "Sit down, damn you! We did absolutely _nothing_ to you. Wilson called Cuddy straightaway and took you to the ER."

Lucas was still restless. "What do you think we did?" House asked, exasperated.

"Dunno. Remember something. Or maybe ... a dream." Lucas's face showed confusion. "A wood. With ... nymphs ... and fauns."

House let out a snort of laughter.

"Wilson was there," Lucas added defensively.

"Oh, I'm sure he was! Here, hop in the car!" He pushed the wheelchair to the passenger door of his car and held it open. Lucas rose with a slight wobble, but made it into the seat without any mishap.

"I'm taking the wheelchair back to the lobby, and then I'll come back." House leaned with one hand on the roof of the car, the other holding the passenger door open. "But be not afraid: I'm sure Cuddy will love a story in which our head of oncology drugs you and spirits you off into a magic wood populated by fairy creatures celebrating wild orgies."

He tossed his backpack into the rear seat, slammed the door, twirled the wheelchair round and on a whim dropped into it. After giving the wheels an experimental twist or two he careened off towards the lobby. Inside, his wild ride was stopped short by two figures in khaki who positioned themselves right in front of him.

"What?" he barked.

"We're sorry, sir, but we have to check your identification," one of them said.

"Hey, I just went out of here – you saw me go. Why can't I come back in?"

The two guards looked at one another. "You didn't," the older one said dubiously. "The guy who was pushed out just now was Lucas. We know him."

"I wasn't in the wheelchair. I was _pushing_ it."

"Well, you can only come in if you can identify yourself," the younger one, a ginger-headed boy argued, adding as an afterthought, "Begging your pardon, sir."

"I'm a doctor here, begging _your_ pardon."

They looked at each other again. "You need to identify yourself," they repeated, almost unisono.

"Okay," said House, getting up and unhooking the cane from the back of the wheelchair as he did so, "_you_ can take the wheelchair back where it belongs: Ward 3, my love to Nurse Emily. And my regards to Dr Cuddy, but I can't do my clinic duty today because two of her jokers stopped me from entering the hospital."

He stumped towards the glass doors of the hospital.

"House!" Wilson came shooting out of the clinic. "I heard you're taking Lucas home?"

"Yeah. Cuddy's kinda busy, smooching up to politicians." He nodded towards the clinic, where cameras flashed, men in suits abounded and patients were scarce. "It's better than clinic duty," he added at Wilson's expression of disbelief.

"You've been here all night, so she won't insist on clinic duty anyway," Wilson pointed out.

"Shouldn't you be in oncology getting everything spick and span for the imperial visit?"

"Don't deflect. They won't get to oncology before eleven. What happened?"

House busied himself buttoning his collar up tight. Wilson pointed a finger at him.

"You showed Cuddy the cafeteria video, so she freaked, right? And now you're feeling guilty, though heaven knows why you should, so you're taking the boy-toy home for her."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I didn't show her the video. She searched my office and found it. Nor am I feeling guilty." He stepped outside, hoping that the cold would force Wilson, clad only in a suit, to stay in the warmth of the hospital. Wilson, however, apart from a whistle of surprise when the cold air hit him, showed no sign of dropping his pursuit of the matter.

"Is that why Cuddy is looking like shit?"

"She had a rough night. If you value your balls you'd better not tell her what you think she looks like."

"Cuddy rises up from a rough night like a phoenix from the ashes. She's cut up about Lucas, isn't she?"

House didn't answer.

"She sobbed on your shoulder. Wow!"

"No, she didn't!"

"If she didn't, then only because _you_ didn't offer it. House, you moron!"

That offered an opening to distract Wilson. "That's more _your_ thing, offering a shoulder to cry on, basking in her neediness. Then the pity fuck, the marriage, the divorce. At least this time you wouldn't have to pay alimony: she earns more than you and the marriage wouldn't last for more than two months. Cuddy's not _that_ needy."

Wilson ignored that completely. House guessed he was so used to his little digs about his marital affairs that he was immunized to them. "Her guy turns out to be a jackass so she needs comfort, but you are too much of a jerk to offer it," Wilson noted.

House sighed. "What good would it do her? Lucas would still be an ass; she'd still have to deal with it. She's just seen the true face of the man she loves. Do you think patting her on the back and making cooing sounds is going to help her through that?"

"So what does driving him home achieve?"

"It gives her a breathing space of twelve hours before she has to face him."

Wilson looked unconvinced.

"Look," House said tiredly, "after the infarction, when having to deal with Stacy'd get too much for me, I'd pretend to be knocked out by all those painkillers. Cuddy doesn't have that option."

"Wait ... you're comparing Lucas with _Stacy_?"

House considered this. "I'd say they're both a bit of a disappointment."

He nodded a dismissal at Wilson and headed towards his car.

_Theseus__: No epilogue, I pray you, for your play needs no excuse.  
[...] Lovers, to bed, 'tis almost fairy time.  
[A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 5 Scene 1]_

_THE END_

_

* * *

_

Another Author's Note: (Sorry, I feel the need to explain my views here.) IMO the cafeteria incident is much, much worse than the pranking that Cuddy knows about, but doesn't seem to care about particularly for the following reasons:

The pranking was fairly harmless. Though Wilson may have been cheesed off, House was clearly amused throughout. If he'd really been upset about the bathroom rail or considered it as dangerous as other fanfic writers suggest, then he wouldn't have suspected Wilson or his team of being responsible. (Wasn't Wilson the one who sawed through his cane? Not very safe either, especially if one doesn't know in what situation it'll break.) The sprinkler incident had him in fits of laughter. Besides, the pranking counts as a tit-for-tat - 'you take the condo, I prank you'. There was nothing there that House wouldn't have done himself nor was it directed at House personally, as a rival or otherwise. Although the bathroom rail was installed for House, there was no guarantee that Wilson didn't use it to lever himself out of the bathtub. Wilson was the one who was pissed and the one who was damaged financially.

The cafeteria incident, however, (a) was not a prank, (b) was directed solely against House, and (c) had no tit-for-tat kind of relevance, no 'the disciplinary measure should show a clear connection to the misdeed' kind of justification. (Books on child-raising will tell you that if your eight-year-old kid, say, spills his drink on purpose, then the appropriate measure to be taken is to make him mop up the mess, not send him up to his room or whatever.) Lucas's macho talk afterwards carried the message, "You stay away from my girl-friend, or I'll get nasty, as in 'physically nasty'." House didn't find it funny, and if I were Cuddy, I wouldn't find it funny either. Either Lucas doesn't think she is capable of dealing with a love-struck House or he doesn't believe she is sufficiently dedicated to him to stay away from House of her own accord. Neither are assumptions that Cuddy would be comfortable with, seeing as she's a big girl who can take care of herself perfectly well and old enough to know that messing around with one man while trying to have a stable, long-lasting relationship with another might be slightly counter-productive.

Hence I believe that while the pranking doesn't bother Cuddy enough for her to get upset at Lucas, the cafeteria incident would earn her disapproval if she knew of it.


End file.
